


Flesh and Stone

by Mossflower_17



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Battle Scenes, Battle of Five Armies Fix-It, Elf/Dwarf, Eventual Fix-It anyway, Eventual Romance, F/M, History of Middle Earth, Interspecies Romance, Invented Characters, Minor Violence, More tags will be added as more plot points crop up, Original Character(s), Side Bilbo/Bofur, Side Kili/Tauriel - Freeform, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Thorin and my OFC, Thorin-centric, Will get around to the plot of The Hobbit eventually, will get round to the plot of The Hobbit eventually
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-13
Updated: 2016-09-11
Packaged: 2018-04-26 05:13:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 52
Words: 286,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4991551
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mossflower_17/pseuds/Mossflower_17
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The year is T.A. 2931, ten years before the Quest for Erebor. Travelling back to Ered Luin with a small company of dwarves, Thorin Oakenshield is laid low by a poisoned wound in his shoulder. Desperate for aid, and shunned by the other races, his fellow dwarves turn to the only person willing to help: a wandering elvish healer named Ithilrian. After healing Thorin, and rather embarrassingly falling head-over-heels in love with him, she asks to become one of his travelling companions. Oblivious to the turmoil he’s stirred up within her, Thorin begrudgingly agrees; and so a long journey begins.</p>
<p>Or: the story of how an elf-maid fell in love with a dwarf lord, and all the fun of a slow-burn interspecies romance (where both species are supposed to historically hate one another). This story opens a little while before The Hobbit is set, but don’t worry; we’ll find our way into movie-canon soon. Then the fun will really begin…</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Many Meetings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which two dwarves walk into a bar…

It was a wet, cold and miserable day in Maedor, a tiny village of men. The rain was drumming steadily on the thatch, pouring in streams from the eaves and gutters, and gathering in shallow pools on the muddy streets. The villagers were mostly gathered in the local inn, sitting in small groups and muttering over pints of sour, watery ale. Resentment and tobacco smoke was hanging heavily in the air. No one noticed the silent watcher, who lay belly-down along the rafters, idly observing the men below.  


‘Them bloody dwarves are still sniffing about,’ grumbled one of the balding, grim-faced patrons. ‘I don’t like it. No, sir, I don’t like it one bit. There’s a rumour of goblins in the woods, and trolls coming down off the mountains too.’  


‘Rumour’s about all you’re good for these days Ferny,’ sneered another man. ‘Want to go hide in your hole, eh? Any orcs or goblins that come near and…’ He pulled out a short, wicked-looking knife and tested the blade meaningfully. ‘They’ll get what they don’t expect.’  


The silent watcher smiled, stifling a giggle. The only battle these men were ready to face, she thought, was over the next pint. Still… it was worth knowing that the folk of this town were not friendly to strangers. She sighed. It had been that way too often of late. Not that she minded sleeping hidden in the trees; but it would have been nice to find a real bed, just once in a while…  


‘…The same goes for them dwarves, elves, and other non-human folk,’ the speaker added loudly, as the door below swung open with a bang, and two cloaked and bedraggled figures stumbled in.  


‘What’s this then?’ The burly landlady swept out from behind the bar. ‘What’s this commotion?’  


‘Dwarves,’ came a resentful mutter from somewhere within the widening circle of men. ‘Trouble, I’ll warrant.’  


‘Please,’ began one of the newcomers, whose blonde beard was just beginning to grow though, ‘please, we need help! Do you have a healer in this town? Our leader is sick!’ Rainwater dripped from their cloaks and breeches, and their long hair was plastered to their heads.  


‘Dwarves,’ came another resentful murmur. ‘Not more bloody dwarves.’  


‘Sick, is he?’ snarled one of the men. ‘We’ll go noplace with sickness in it, dwarf. None of our humanfolk will, anyhow.’  


A low mutter ran around the room. Heads nodded in agreement. Things were bad enough, was the general consensus: no need to go where there was sickness to make it worse.  


‘You won’t help? But you have to!’ cried the other dwarf. This one was also young, but darker haired, and his voice was loud, and trembling with desperation. ‘Tell us where your healers are! We can pay – !’  


‘Go on, get out of here,’ snarled the men. ‘Take your filthy dwarf sickness and get out. There’s not a healer in this village that’d help you. Get gone, and good riddance.’  


Silence fell as the two dwarfs stumbled back out into the pouring rain. ‘Good riddance,’ echoed the men at the bar, turning back to their sour ale. No one noticed the lithe, cloaked figure that crept swiftly and quietly along the rafters, pulling a pack from the shadows before dropping out of sight. Dwarves, she thought to herself. Dwarves with a sick leader. Maybe I can do some good in this town after all.  


Outside the inn, the two youngsters were oblivious to the rain that was still pouring from the darkening sky. They conferred together in anxious whispers, gesticulating and looking from side to side worriedly. So intent on their conversation that they did not notice the light step of the hooded stranger, who appeared beside them as if from nowhere.  


‘I saw what just happened,’ she said. ‘I am a healer. My name is Ithilrian. Perhaps I can help you.’  


The two dwarves jumped in shock, wheeling around to face the newcomer. Their faces were the picture of amazement, for a couple of seconds. Then urgency creased their faces once more. ‘You are? You will? Please – come back with us to camp. You must help him!’  


Ithilrian nodded. She needed no further encouragement; she could feel the fear, and the desperation, pouring from both youngsters. ‘Take me there.’  


The pair of dwarves needed no further encouragement. They took off, sprinting at full tilt down the muddied street. To their surprise, the elf kept pace with them easily.  


Beyond the borders of the village, was a patch of scrubby ground, unused for decades. This was where the wandering dwarves had arrived and set up camp.  


‘In there!’ gasped the dwarves simultaneously, pointing towards the largest tent. Ithilrian could see the dim light of a fire flickering within. ‘Oin won’t let us in – but he’ll be glad to see you – go!’  


‘What? What’s the commotion?’ The tent flap was thrown back, and an older, sterner-looking dwarf stuck his head out. ‘You two nightmares, I told – wait, what?’ He paused mid-tirade to look Ithilrian up and down. She met his gaze head on.  


‘Healer?’ he asked her. The word came out as a bark, short and sharp. Desperate, thought Ithilrian. Fear was pouring from this dwarf, too.  


‘Yes,’ she nodded. ‘I was told there was sickness?’  


With a brief gesture the older dwarf beckoned her inside. ‘Best y’come inside, out of the rain lass. You’re no use to us half drowned.’ He held back the tent flap. Ithilrian ducked inside, and immediately wrinkled her nose. There was a small fire burning, and the air smelled of woodsmoke; but it also smelled of more than that. It smelled of death, and sickness, and poison.  


‘M’name’s Oin,’ grunted the dwarf, beckoning her over to a makeshift bed. ‘Healer and seer, for this rag-tag bunch of misfits. But there’s something amiss here, that my arts cannot fix.’ He shot her a keen glance from beneath bushy brows. ‘I’ve heard tales of elvish medicine,’ he added. ‘If he dies, well… may Aule help us all.’  


Ithilrian stepped closer to the sickbed. A dwarf lay upon it, swathed heavily in blankets and furs. His long dark hair was splayed over a makeshift pillow. Both were drenched with sweat.  


‘Fever,’ muttered Ithilrian. She shot a glance at Oin. ‘How long?’  


‘Three days,’ he muttered.  


She shook her head. ‘Where is the wound?’  


‘Here.’ Oin peeled back the blankets, revealing the dwarf’s tightly muscled chest and shoulder. The shoulder was swathed with bandages. ‘I’ve been trying to keep him warm, force his body to sweat out the fever. But it’s not working.’  


Ithilrian shook her head. ‘I need to see the wound.’  


Oin nodded, and busied himself untying bandages. Ithilrian sat back on her haunches and narrowed her eyes. Is this why I came here? she wondered. As a wandering healer, she had been drawn to many strange and lonely places, to help those who were in no condition to help themselves. She was still unsure just what it was that had taken her feet in the direction of this tiny village of men.  


She studied the sick dwarf. Unconscious, she knew immediately. His eyes were half-lidded, but the whites were rolled back and unseeing. His breath was coming in ragged, unsteady gasps. _There is something… wrong,_ she thought to herself. This was more than just a fever. She wrinkled her nose and sniffed again. The scent of something sickly sweet and cloying rose into her nostrils. _I know that smell._  


‘There,’ came Oin’s voice, breaking in on her thoughts, attracting her attention as he peeled back the last of the bandages. What he revealed made Ithilrian catch her breath.  


The wound was not overlarge, but it was deep. The edges were ragged, as though the blade that made it had been serrated; and the flesh all around it was discolored, blackish grey and purple. It was from this the sickly scent was rising.  


‘It’s bad,’ she muttered, leaning forwards.  


‘I ken that,’ replied the dwarf. ‘But can ye do anything?’  


Ithilrian narrowed her eyes, placing a hand upon the sick dwarf’s forehead. It was hot to the touch, and slick with sweat. She closed her eyes, and allowed the magics she had inherited from her mother to drift forwards, towards the dwarf. She could sense his pain, his fear. His spirit was lost in fever-dreams, wandering the shadow realm between life and death. _But he is closer to death,_ her inner thought supplied. _His feet are on the dark path already. Perhaps it would be kinder to let him take it._ Perhaps, she thought in reply. But is he there of his own volition? Who – or what – is leading him?  


‘Lass?’ Oin’s voice sounded very far away. ‘Lass, what is it?’  


She pulled herself back to the tangible world with a sigh. ‘He is dying,’ she replied shortly. ‘His life-force, his spirit, it is… fading.’ She leaned back, removing her hand from the sick dwarf’s brow, with a strange, tight look upon her face. Her jaw clenched with the memory of pain. ‘I do not know if I should call him back,’ she said softly. ‘He may be too far gone.’  


_‘What?!’_   


The cry came from just inside the tent. The two young dwarfs from earlier had pushed inside, unnoticed.  


‘Dammit, Fili, Kili! I told you to stay outside!’ bellowed Oin. Stress veins stood out on the old dwarf’s brow. ‘You’ll do no good here – ’  


‘You can’t just say that!’ The young dwarves, Fili and Kili, were totally ignoring Oin and staring with wild eyes at Ithilrian. ‘Our uncle is dying! You have to save him!!’  


Ithilrian hesitated. She could hear the pounding of her heart as it curled itself into a fist and began hammering at the inside of her chest. A memory long repressed flashed before her eyes: of a similar room, a similar scene, and a similar cry.

_‘No, please! Lord Elrond, she is dying! You have to save her!’_  
_‘I’m sorry, child. She’s too far gone. There’s nothing I can do.’_  
_‘No! No, she is my only sister! I’m begging you, please, save her!!’_

A fire that had long lain dormant inside Ithilrian’s spirit woke up and blazed. The heat of it filled her up, a burning sense of rage that had been sparked by the memory of an old, badly healed wound. Not again, she thought to herself. Not this time.  


‘Hot water,’ she snapped.  


The young dwarves gaped at her. ‘What?’  


‘Hot water!’ she repeated impatiently. ‘Fetch me some! If I’m to save your uncle’s life…’ Her words got no further, as in a flurry of limbs Fili and Kili were out of the tent and dashing towards the communal campfire, bellowing for hot water.  


‘What are you going to do?’ asked Oin, eyeing her uncertainly as Ithilrian pulled open her pack and began bringing out vials and packets of dried herbs and powders.  


‘There is dark magic at work on that wound,’ she replied bluntly. ‘Some form of poison lurks within. We have to purge it.’  


Oin nodded. ‘What d’you need me to do?’ he asked simply.  


Ithilrian shot him a glance. ‘Keep those young pups calm,’ she replied. ‘They may not like this, but I will need your help, and theirs, before this is over.’  


‘Why is that?’  


‘Because whatever it is that has their uncle in its grasp will hardly give him up without a fight.’ She pulled out a paper packet, extracting several long, slender leaves. She handled them with great care, lifting them to her nose and sniffing. _‘Asëa Aranion._ Kingsfoil. Some of their virtue is gone,’ she muttered to herself. ‘Yet I think they will suffice.’  


There was a commotion in the tent once more as Fili and Kili returned, bearing between them a large pan of steaming water. Into it, Ithilrian dipped a flat copper bowl. This she placed beside the sick dwarf, before crushing the athelas leaves in her hands and casting them into the water. Immediately, a pungent, wholesome scent filled the tent.  


Ithilrian glanced back at Oin. ‘For this to work, I will need his name.’  


Oin nodded. ‘Thorin,’ he replied. ‘His name is Thorin Oakenshield.’  


‘Thorin.’ Ithilrian nodded, allowing the name to settle in the forefront of her mind, before placing a slender hand on the unconscious dwarf’s brow again. ‘It’s time to come home, Thorin Oakenshield.’

~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew! Trying to find my way into the story here, and introduce the characters in a relatively realistic way. Fingers crossed this all works out. Any comments/kudos/criticisms will be welcomed with open arms!


	2. Elvish Medicine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Oin, Fili, and Kili help Ithilrian to heal Thorin; and a surprising revelation is had.

What the three dwarfs witnessed that night, they did not fully understand. Nevertheless, that did not stop Fili and Kili from retelling the tale to any who would listen. 

For some time, in the eyes of the dwarves, the elf had remained motionless, stooping over Thorin with one hand on his brow. She seemed to be staring beyond the walls of their tent, eyes focused on something they could not see.  


‘Thorin.’ The name dropped from her lips as a whisper. Then, a little louder, she called him again. The second time, the unconscious dwarf groaned in his sleep, his body twisting involuntarily beneath the heavy blankets and skins. Fili made as though to move towards his uncle, but Oin held him back with one hand on his chest.  


‘Steady lad,’ he muttered. ‘There’s elf magic afoot. Don’t go near.’ He assessed the tableau in front of him with narrowed eyes. Old and partly deaf as he was, Oin was no fool. He had been a warrior and healer for almost a century; and he knew when to step back, and allow others to do what he could not.  


However, he was not prepared for the shout that made them jump half out of their skins; or the bright white light that blazed forwards from where the elf’s hand lay on Thorin’s brow.  


_‘Aí Elbereth Gílthoníel!’_ The elf-maid’s voice swelled like thunder over the mountains, ringing in the ears of the three dwarves. _‘Lasto beth nîn. Tolo dan na ngalad.’ (Hear my voice. Come back to the light.)_  


A hoarse cry burst forth from Thorin’s lips, and he began struggling wildly.  


‘Help me!’ cried Ithilrian. ‘Oin!’  


The dwarf was at her side in an instant. ‘What’s happening?’  


‘Hold him down. It’s time we purged the poison.’ Her breath was coming in ragged gasps, but her voice rang with authority and her face was set, as one carved from granite. Fili and Kili leaped forwards, and helped Oin to restrain their writhing uncle.  


‘Is he going to die?’ Kili’s voice was taut with pain, his face pale beneath its tan.  


Ithilrian did not reply. With one hand she dropped a cloth into the copper bowl, allowing it to soak up the water in which the athelas had steeped, before picking it up and allowing the pungent water to drip freely into the corrupted wound on Thorin’s shoulder.  


What Oin had not expected was that the drops of water should hiss on contact with the poisoned flesh; or that such a sweet, sickly smell would rise and fill the tent. He wrinkled his nose and coughed. Beside him, Fili and Kili were sputtering too.  


‘You smell it now?’ said Ithilrian, maintaining her focus on the groaning dwarf beneath them. ‘That is the scent of death, my friends.’ She pulled the cloth back. ‘But it’s not welcome here today. Fili, Kili, I’ll need you to hold him down. Oin, take up that bowl. Hold it ready.’  


‘Ready for what?’ asked the bewildered dwarves in unison.  


‘To catch whatever poison I can draw from this wound,’ replied Ithilrian. Her voice was strained. She bought her clenched fists together, muttering softly in elvish, before opening her hands and beginning to chand aloud. The breath caught in the throats of Fili and Kili, as a viscous black liquid began to bubble up from the wound. The stench rose, as Ithilrian’s voice grew louder and the flow of liquid quickened. Thorin bellowed and writhed beneath them, his dark hair splayed over the pillow, his chest rising and falling fitfully, as he moaned hoarsely in pain.  


‘I’m sorry Uncle,’ muttered Fili, squeezing his eyes shut. Oin was ready with the copper bowl, and as the poison was drawn forth it spilled into the althelas water, where each drop hissed and smoked.  


Eventually, it was over. Ithilrian sat back, lowering her hands. Thorin’s struggles had stopped, and the poison had all been drawn. The wound on his shoulder looked raw and bloody, but clean.  


‘It is done,’ muttered Ithilrian wearily. She picked up the copper bowl and inspected its contents. The water had turned black. She handed it carefully to Fili. ‘Take this and throw it on the fire.’ He nodded, and left the tent.  


Oin leaned forwards, carefully checking over his patient. Thorin was still unconscious, but now it seemed like more of a deep sleep. His eyes were closed, and his breathing was steady. He glanced back at Ithilrian, who had sat back against the tent wall. She was running a hand through her long fair hair.  


‘I guess we owe you a barrel of thanks, lass,’ grunted the dwarf. ‘I don’t know what y’did, or how. But I reckon you’ve saved him.’ He looked her up and down speculatively. ‘Although it seems to me you could do with a healer now yourself. You look terrible.’  


Ithilrian let out a short, harsh laugh. ‘Thank you.’  


‘No offence intended,’ added the old dwarf easily.  


‘None taken,’ she replied. ‘I am weary that's all. It was a hard-fought battle.’  


‘Battle?’ Both of them had forgotten Kili, who was still crouching in the tent behind them. ‘I… didn’t see a battle,’ he added, when they both stared at him.  


‘That’s because it was fought in the wraith world, which is invisible to mortal eyes,’ replied Ithilrian. Her eyes wandered back towards the sleeping dwarf. ‘I will stay here,’ she added. It was a statement of fact, not a request for permission. ‘He won’t be fully out of danger till he wakes.’  


‘Hmm.’ Oin nodded thoughtfully. ‘How long will that be, do you think?’  


The elf shrugged. ‘It is always different. Perhaps hours. Perhaps days.’  


‘Very well,’ nodded Oin. ‘I’ll go tell the others. Come, Kili.’ Both dwarves ducked out of the tent, leaving Ithilrian alone with the unconscious Thorin.  


‘Sleep well, Thorin,’ she muttered. ‘But do not sleep too long.’ She leaned forwards, picking up the damp cloth and using it to wipe the sweat from his skin. It was only now that she properly allowed herself to look at him. He was long-haired and bearded, of course, just like all dwarves, with sharply chiseled features and a stern nose that made him look like a figure cut from stone. As she gently smoothed the athelas-infused cloth across his skin, Ithilrian wondered idly what he would look like when awake, what colour his eyes were, how his mouth would move when he smiled.  


She halted suddenly, her hand still. A feeling had come. It was almost like fear, the way it filled her, rising into her chest. It was almost like tears, how swiftly it came. It was almost like grief, the way it overwhelmed her, and made her limbs tremble.  


But it was neither of these things. She glanced back at Thorin’s stern, handsome features, and knew.  


_Oh… shit,_ she thought to herself. _I’ve fallen in love with a dwarf._

~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So… these chapters are turning out pretty long, and pretty full of stuff. Not sure if that's a good thing. Oh well. More dwarves soon! ^_^ 
> 
> Also I know that last bit comes on pretty fast - it will be explained properly later, promise!


	3. Perspectives: Oin, Kili and Fili

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we get a brief insights into the thoughts of the three dwarves, after Thorin's been healed and everyone's settling down for the night.

Oin

It was a funny old world, Oin reflected, as he settled into his bedroll for the first time in three days. Who’d have thought that the King of the dwarves would have his life saved by an elf, of all creatures?  


Oin was a practical dwarf. While he had felt the loss of Erebor just as keenly as his companions, and harboured his own bubbling resentment for Thranduil’s betrayal, he was sensible enough not to turn away the elf when she had arrived with Fili and Kili. Although, he thought, it had been rather a shock. He had sent the boys away partly to find a healer, and partly to keep them away from the tent. Oin knew his medicines were having no effect, and was terrified that Thorin was about to breathe his last. He didn’t want his nephews to be there when that happened. Fever-death was never pretty.  


He’d been surprised to hear the boys returning so quickly, and shocked to discover they’d been successful in their errand. Although the slender elf maid was not quite what he’d had in mind. Still, Oin thought, it couldn’t be denied that she was a good healer. Elves lived for hundreds of years, after all. They had plenty of time to learn the arts of medicine. Besides, this one had power.  


Oin sighed, turning over on his bedroll to find a more comfortable position. He had lef Fili and Kili sleep in the King’s sick tent that night. With Thorin out of danger, he couldn’t deny them closeness to the only family they had left. Besides, when he’d told old Balin what had occurred, it seemed a wise precaution not to leave the elf alone with Thorin for too long. You couldn’t trust elves; everybody knew that.  


But, Oin thought, as he felt the welcome relief of sleep enveloping him, he’d trust this one. She’d saved their King. He smiled. That made her a good lass in his books any day, elf or no. 

~ 

Kili 

It was warm in the tent, at least, thought Kili as he snuggled down into the blankets beside his brother. The sweet, wholesome smell of the athelas still lingered in the air, as comforting as the knowledge that his uncle would live.  


As the younger of the two brothers, Kili was used to being largely ignored by the older, sterner dwarfs. This was just fine by him. Kili loved to make jokes and play pranks, to laugh boisterously and wrestle with his older brother. They had been nothing but babes in their mother's arms when the dragon came: when his uncle had lost his kingdom and the dwarves had lost their homeland. He and Fili didn’t know the pain of becoming homeless, and losing many friends and loved ones to Smaug’s wrath. He’d grown up wandering the wilds; and it showed. There was a lot of wildness inside Kili.  


Still, he thought, it was a relief to know that uncle Thorin was going to be all right. Stern as he was, he was all the family the brothers had left. He craned his neck slightly to catch a reassuring glimpse of the strange healer, who still sat at Thorin’s side, her grey eyes ever watchful. She was not like other elves, Kili thought, although he had to admit his experience was rather limited. Those he had met before had been either haughty and disdainful, or irritatingly calm and patronizing. This elf seemed to be none of those things. She had been calm in the street, but he had glimpsed the grim determination on her face when she set about healing their uncle. It was similar to an expression he’d seen on Thorin’s face before.  


Yes, Kili thought, as he rolled himself up in his blanket, there was something strange about this elf. But he liked her. She had spoken fairly to him, and treated him like a capable adult; something that none of these dwarves had done before. They had their reasons for that, Kili knew. But still, the novelty of it pleased him. _I wonder how old she is_ , he thought vaguely, as sleep began to take him. Elves were strange folk, after all. She looked around the same age as him, but Kili would have been willing to bet that she was older. Much older.  


In this case, Kili was right. Still, he would have been shocked to discover just how old this particular elf was. 

 ~ 

Fili

Fili lay awake for some time, allowing his breathing to slow to the pace of his brother’s snores. Most people would have found the noise irritating and given Kili a sharp elbow in the ribs. But Fili found it comforting. For while his brother was still snoring, he was still breathing; and this meant he was still alive.  


Of the two brothers, Fili was known as the responsible one. Although, he thought privately, a well-trained goat could be called responsible when compared with Kili. However, as the eldest, Fili was Thorin’s heir, and a prince of the line of Durin. He was proud of his heritage, and worked hard to live up to his people’s expectations of him. He had listened often to tales told by the old greybeards, tales out of Erebor, from the glory days when the dwarf kingdom was at the height of its power and majesty. In his mind’s eye he could see the many carven hallways, the piles of gold and gems glimmering like stars, the rock-hewn pillars and vast caverns of Erebor. One day, he often told himself: one day I will see them for myself, and not only as a dream.  


With a groan, Fili rolled over, pressing his back against his brother’s. He was used to taking warmth wherever it could be found, as Kili was a terrible blanket thief. But in truth, Fili did not mind. He loved his younger brother dearly, and never begrudged him his stolen warmth. He had been Kili’s minder for as long as he could remember; and, while he tried to be responsible, and live up to the Durin name, the two boys often ended up in all sorts of trouble together.  


He shivered, lulled towards sleep despite the cold, by the flickering light of the dying fire. He barely heard the soft step that approached him, and only opened his eyes a fraction to see the female elf, her grey eyes gentle, placing another blanket over him. The added warmth did the trick. After three days of worry, of fearing for his uncle’s life, Fili could sleep again. With murmured thanks he burrowed into the newfound warmth, grateful at heart to the strange elf who had saved Thorin; who even now seemed to be watching over them.  


Yes, Fili thought, as his mind spiraled down into a heavy, dreamless sleep; things seemed to be looking up. Maybe they’d all come through this alive after all.

~ 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a little bit of outside perspective, before Thorin wakes up.


	4. Making Friends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fili and Kili have decided they quite like this elf. After a good sleep, the young dwarves decide to begin plying her with questions, while still waiting for their uncle to wake.

It did not take hours for Thorin to recover. It took days. Three of them, to be precise. 

Ithilrian stayed in the sick tent almost the entire time, tending to Thorin. He was still feverish, but hour by hour his temperature lowered and, sometimes, he appeared to be simply sleeping peacefully. Still, Ithilrian did not leave his side.  


‘It’s better to be overly cautious, with poisons such as these,’ she explained to Oin. ‘His spirit has been drawn back, but only that. Only once he fully wakes, and regains control of his faculties, can I be certain the last shred of it has passed.’  


Oin nodded. ‘I agree lass,’ he said. ‘The last thing we want is for him to fall sick again. You’ve been working on royalty, y’know.’  


Ithilrian did know. It was one of the first things Fili and Kili had told her, once they’d woken up after the first night.  


‘He’s our King, you know,’ Kili had said, between mouthfuls of bread and cheese. ‘From the line of Durin and everything. His grandfather used to be King Under the Mountain, in Erebor. That’s where most of us are from.’  


‘She knows that already, idiot,’ chided Fili, nudging his brother in the ribs. ‘I must apologize for Kili, Miss,’ he added. ‘His tongue runs away without his brain sometimes. Often, really. Almost all the time, in fact.'  


This earned Fili a shove from his brother, but Ithilrian noticed that Kili did not deny this.  


‘Don’t concern yourselves,’ Ithilrian told them. ‘I am just a wandering healer. I am old, and I have seen many lives passing away. It does me good to speak with young ones like yourselves; although truth be told, all you dwarves seem young to me.’  


‘What, all of us?’ said Kili. ‘What about old Balin? His beard is as white as your hair!’ He furrowed his brow. ‘I didn’t know elves went grey – or white – when they get old. Like us.’  


Ithilrian raised an eyebrow. ‘They don’t.’  


Kili frowned. ‘Then why is your hair white?’  


She shrugged. ‘I was born with white hair. Or silver, as my mother calls it. That’s why I was given my name. _Ithil_ means moon in Sindarin.’ She smiled. ‘My father always said that I took after him in looks, but was more like my mother in temperament.’ She glanced between the two dwarves. ‘Do you think I look… old, then?’  


‘What? No, no not at all!’ stuttered Kili, through an unfortunately-timed mouthful of bread. ‘All I meant was…’  


Fili rolled his eyes. ‘Brother, pull your foot out of your mouth, and apologize to the nice elf lady.’  


Ithilrian smiled. ‘This nice elf lady has a name, you know.’ She pulled back her shoulders, trying to stretch some of the tiredness from them. She glanced over to where Thorin lay. He seemed quiet, but she noticed he was beginning to toss and turn again.  


‘How is he?’ asked Fili, his voice low. ‘I thought... that he might wake up soon?’  


‘He is getting there,’ replied Ithilrian tiredly. ‘I’m doing the best that I can. But the poison had spread far before we could purge it. It could be a while yet.’  


Fili nodded slowly. ‘I’m glad you came,’ he said slowly. ‘I… hate to think what would have happened if you hadn’t been there.’ He glanced sideways at her, his brow furrowed. ‘Can I see him?’  


‘Of course,’ replied Ithilrian. ‘But don’t expect him to wake.’  


They crossed the tent and stood by the sick bed. Thorin was looking better, Fili thought. His face had lost its greenish, sickly pallor, and a swathe of clean white bandages hid the ragged wound on his shoulder. He was still sleeping, but as they watched he began to twitch and shiver fitfully, mumbling something unintelligible in dwarvish. Fili shot a glance at Ithilrian, who was looking down at him and frowning. ‘Is he all right? The sickness isn’t coming back, is it?’  


‘No,’ the elf-maid shook her head. ‘It’s just the fever-dreams. He must work his way through them. But while I cannot speed his journey, I may perhaps make it a little easier.’  


She knelt beside him, throwing a pinch of herbs and several drops of a strange, green liquid into one of the bowls of hot water that were always keep available. A sweet smell rose, different to the wholesome scent of the athelas, but no less agreeable. Fili and Kili breathed in eagerly, and felt strength surge through their bones, and a perceptible lightening of their hearts, as, in a soft, slow voice that seemed to flow through the tent like molten silver, Ithilrian began to sing. 

_‘Si boe ú-dhannathach,_  
_Ae ú-esteliach nad,_    
_Estelio han,_    
_Estelio veleth…’ ___

As the strange words of the elven song drifted through the tent, Thorin stopped thrashing. His movements stilled, and his fevered muttering died away. Ithilrian laid one slender hand upon his brow, and smiled. An expression of peace passed once more over the dwarf king’s sleeping features.  


‘What are you saying?’ asked Kili in a hushed voice.  


Ithilrian shook her head. ‘It’s… just a fragment of an old song I picked up in Imladris. I cannot remember the rest. But I’ve used it before, to calm a fevered soul. It seems to work well.’  


Fili shook himself, as one coming out of a trance. ‘It’s very… different,’ he muttered. ‘Not like dwarven singing at all.’ He glanced at Ithilrian’s face. The elf’s face was as impassive as usual. But her eyes looked different, Fili thought. Her eyes looked tired, and sad. ‘Come on,’ he muttered to Kili. ‘Come on, before Dwalin tears the camp apart looking for us.’  


Ithilrian sighed as the two dwarves left the tent. She had lied to Fili. It was not a song she had used before, or sung before; but she had heard it sung several times. Although, hardly in a situation such as this. She smiled and shook her head. What on earth would her mother say, she wondered. Tenderly she lifted a tendril of Thorin’s hair away from his face, flinching at the deep, aching pain that tugged inside her chest as she did so.  


Elves were not like dwarves, or hobbits, or men. Elves loved fiercely, and for a long, long time. Forever, Valar permitting. In spite of this, or perhaps because of it, when elves fell in love they did so very quickly; often upon first sight. The courtships were swift, so that the elf couple could then spent the long years of their lives slowly learning, and loving, everything about their other half.  


That was why Ithilrian had felt that jolt of understanding when she laid eyes on Thorin. That was also why she was feeling a deep, gut-wrenching ache inside her. Few of the Elder Folk had ever been foolish enough to love a mortal; to love someone that death could touch. No matter how long-lived this dwarf might be, it would never be long enough. She sighed, and buried her head in her hands. Not only had she fallen for a mortal, she had fallen for a dwarf: no less than the King-in-Exile of Erebor. She had heard – and who hadn’t? – of the dragon’s attack on the Lonely Mountain, the fiery death that was brought to so many of Thorin’s people. She had also heard about the Greenwood King Thranduil’s actions: how he had seen the devastation the dragon was wreaking upon the dwarves, and how he had turned his back upon them in their hour of greatest need.  


She shivered. She had fallen for someone who had just cause to hate her entire race; to hate her, despite the fact that she had no affiliation with the Woodland King. No, loving Thorin Oakenshield would not be easy. From what she’d heard whispered in the camp, she would most likely be cast aside the moment the King was awake.  


That was why she stayed with him. That was why she sat, for three days and three nights without sleep, tending to Thorin, burning sweet herbs, and singing softly to soothe his fitful sleep. After all, she thought, she was likely never to lay eyes on him again. 

~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The elvish song Ithilrian sings is something I have taken from the lyrics to Evenstar, one of the beautiful songs from The Two Towers soundtrack. The translation of the elvish words is: 
> 
> 'You cannot falter now,  
> If you trust nothing else,  
> Trust this,  
> Trust love.'


	5. A Campfire Conversation

It was on the third day of Thorin’s fever-sleep that Ithilrian received a visit. 

‘Balin, son of Fundin, at your service,’ said the old, white-bearded dwarf, who bowed low to Ithilrian as soon as he’d stepped inside the tent.  


‘Ithilrian, of Lothlórien, at yours,’ the elf replied, bowing in polite response. She breathed in deeply to try and banish the nagging exhaustion that was threading cold fingers though her bones. ‘Fili and Kili mentioned you,’ she added, feeling surprisingly awkward. No one had bowed to her in centuries. ‘They told me you’d be likely to come and check on the health of our patient.’  


‘Aye,’ nodded Balin. ‘I’m Thorin’s… general advisor, for want of a better title. Trusted companion, and all that. I’d be remiss if I didn’t come and ask your professional opinion. Tell me, how fares our King?’  


‘He fares well,’ replied Ithilrian. She could not conceal the weary smile that tugged at the corners of her mouth. But she did make sure the dwarf saw nothing of the warm coil of joy that latched around her ribcage at the thought of Thorin’s recovery. ‘His wound is healing cleanly, and his sleep is lighter. It will not be long now till he wakes, I think. A matter of some hours, perhaps.’  


Balin exhaled a long, relieved sigh. ‘That, my lass, is the best news I’ve received in weeks.’ He nodded towards the small fire. ‘These chilly autumn mists do my joints no good, I’m afraid. Mind if encroach upon the King’s sick tent, and sit my old bones by the fire for a moment?’  


‘By all means,’ replied Ithilrian. She watched as the old dwarf settled himself cross-legged beside the embers with a faint groan. After some hesitation, and a swift check on her patient, Ithilrian joined him. She pushed back her cloak and seated herself opposite Balin, folding her long slender legs beneath her. For some little while, neither elf nor dwarf spoke. Ithilrian kept her eyes on the dying fire, soothed by the rustling pops and cracks given out by the charring wood. Balin, meanwhile, withdrew a small, carved pipe from an inside pocket of his coat, and shot a questioning look at Ithilrian. After receiving a small nod, he busied himself with filling it, shooting the occasional curious glance at the elf maid as he did so. He was the first to break the silence.  


‘May I ask what brings a young lass like yourself so far North?’ His voice was gentle and conversational, but his eyes were wary. ‘We see few of you elder folk these days. Not that I’m not mighty glad you appeared when you did, but…’ he heaved a sigh and the sentence trailed off.  


Ithilrian sighed softly, keeping her grey eyes on the flickering embers. ‘I am hardly a young lass, Master Balin. And I too have seen few of my own kind these past years. But as to your question: I am, simply, a wanderer. I left my home some time ago, and I have travelled the wilds of Middle Earth for many years. I travel alone, and go where I am needed.’  


Balin nodded. ‘I’ve met wandering healers like yourself before, lass. Some dwarves, mostly humans; though never an elf.’ His eyes narrowed, and he looked at her shrewdly. ‘But Middle Earth is a large place. It’s a fine coincidence, that you should arrive, just in time for our people to seek your services.’  


Ithilrian raised a single, fine eyebrow at the old dwarf. ‘What you mean to ask, I believe, is how I came to be in the right place, at the right time?’  


Balin shuffled uncomfortably, and nodded. Ithilrian shrugged, turning her gaze towards the fire once more. ‘I go where I am called,’ she said softly. ‘I do not fully understand it myself, I must confess. My feet led me here, I knew not why; until I heard the ruckus Fili and Kili were kicking up in the inn back there. I had lain concealed in the rafters for some time, you see. When I heard their cries for a healer, I knew why I had been drawn here. But alas, not how.’ She glanced back towards to old dwarf across the fire. ‘Does that answer your question?’  


Balin drew a deep breath, and nodded. ‘About the matter of your payment…’  


Ithilrian stopped him with a single upraised hand. ‘Let us not speak of it. My patient is not yet fully healed.’  


Balin hesitated, before nodding again. ‘I suppose you’re right. It’d probably be best to let Thorin have a say in it, anyway. Although,’ he added, a hint of mirth glimmering in his eyes, ‘I don’t know what Thorin is going to say when he finds out his life was saved by an elf. He might be a mite… prickly.’  


Ithilrian permitted herself a small smile. ‘Doubtless. I should cover young Fili and Kili’s ears, if I were you.’  


Balin chuckled, puffing on his pipe, then frowning when he realized he had forgotten to light it. ‘Aye. No offence intended lass, but Thorin… and indeed, many of the fellows here, have no reason to love elves.’ He raised one placating hand. ‘Although I’ll say, you’ve done nobly by us. You’ve given us help, while the men of this village were content to do nothing.’ He eyed her curiously. ‘And I must say, the young princes seem to be quite fond of you already.’  


Ithilrian smiled again; a warm, true smile. ‘They are so young,’ she replied softly. ‘So very full of life. Sometimes, alone in the wilds, it is easy to forget that such things exist. It does a battered old soul like mine good to see such life again, _mellon_.'  


Balin looked at her inquisitively. ‘I… do not know that word.’  


‘ _Mellon?'_ Balin nodded, and she inclined her head gracefully. ‘My apologies. It is an elvish word for friend.’  


‘I… see.’ Balin looked surprised, but she noticed that he did not look displeased. In fact, Ithilrian could detect a definite twinkle in his deep-set eyes. ‘Well. If’n you don’t mind my asking lass, where was it you said you were from again?’  


‘I come from Lothlórien,’ replied Ithilrian. ‘I was raised in the shadow of the Golden Wood. I have travelled much since then, of course.’ She tilted her head to one side, eyeing the dwarf carefully. ‘I sense the next question that is on your mind, Master Balin.’  


‘Oh?’ The dwarf became inscrutable, having finally managed to light his pipe.  


‘You wish to know, do you not, if I have any connection, any allegiance, with King Thranduil of the Greenwood – or Mirkwood, as I believe folk call it now.’ She frowned. ‘Let us not dance around this issue. You and I are both too old for such nonsense.’  


Balin nodded. ‘You are perceptive. I guess you know why I must ask.’  


‘Yes.’ Ithilrian’s eyes hardened. ‘I had news of the dragon attack. I also received news of Thranduil’s… decision, and questionable actions.’ She sighed. ‘I know relations between elves and dwarves were never easy, but… really. His actions appalled many of my people, you know. _Amarth faeg!_ To see the sons of Durin bought thus low, is…’ she hesitated. _Heartbreaking_ , she wanted to say. But she was afraid of revealing too much of herself to this old dwarf. ‘I know not the correct word for it, in the common tongue. Perhaps there is none.’  


She glanced back at Balin, finding his eyes locked onto hers. ‘To speak plainly, then. I am not from Mirkwood, nor do I have ties to the people of that realm. In fact, I am not even _Silvan_. I am _Noldorin_ : of the clan Noldor. My line is distilled from the house of Finarfin, son of Finwë.’ She hesitated. ‘I realize too late that these names may mean little to you.’  


‘No matter,’ replied Balin. He smiled gently at her over the flicker of the dying fire. ‘My thanks, lass, for answering plainly such personal questions.’  


Ithilrian inclined her head. ‘I understand your concern. My kind is not well-liked here. I have heard what is whispered in the camp.’ She smiled at Balin’s look of surprise. ‘Elves have sharp ears, my friend,’ she reminded him. ‘So this is what I propose. It is my belief that Thorin Oakenshield is close to throwing off his fever-sleep; thank the Valar. But somehow, I don’t think he’d be best pleased if the first person he saw, upon waking, was an elf.’  


‘No,’ agreed Balin, nodding shrewdly. ‘No, I think you’re right. He’d likely throw a fit, illness or no. Has a bit of a temper about him, our King.’  


‘Then what I suggest is that you, or perhaps Fili and Kili, should watch him for these last few hours, so that he may be greeted with a trusted face. I, meanwhile…’ she stifled a yawn, and a shiver. ‘I must sleep, Master Balin. It has been three days since last I closed my eyes; and the healing process takes much from me.’  


‘Aye,’ said Balin. ‘I’ll call the lads. Meanwhile, if you’ll allow me to escort you, there’s an space at one of the campfires that has your name on it.’  


‘My name?’ she asked, bewildered.  


‘A figure of speech, lass,’ he added gently.  


‘I see,’ replied Ithilrian. She sighed. ‘Forgive me, I have spent little time amongst mortals, I do not know all the correct ways with words.’  


‘Not to worry.’ An almost fatherly expression flickered across the dwarf’s face. ‘Now follow me.’  


Ithilrian gathered up her pack, tugging her cloak closely about her as she followed Balin out of the tent and into the night. They wove around other tents and a couple of smaller campfires, Ithilrian ignoring the unabashed stares, even scowls, that were directed towards her.  


‘Here,’ said Balin, as they arrived at the embers of a small fire, set just outside the dwarves’ main camp. ‘I trust this is as good a spot as any?’  


‘It will suit me very well,’ replied Ithilrian. Balin smiled, hearing the relief plainly in the elf maid’s voice. ‘My thanks.’  


‘You’re welcome,’ he replied. ‘Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve a pair of mischievous dwarf princes to find.’  


‘ _Ni lassui_ , Master Balin. Should you need me, call. I will hear.’  


The old dwarf wandered away, and Ithilrian settled herself down and tugged up the hood of her cloak, ignoring the hard floor and the cold night breeze. Her thoughts were hazy with the desire for sleep. Surely, she thought to herself, after she’d had a few hours of good deep sleep, she would be feeling better; and once again able to concentrate on ignoring that deep, insistent ache that was still growing inside her chest.

~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well! I had intended for Thorin to be awake and grumping around by now. But this chapter sort of slid away from me. He should be up and glowering around soon, I promise… 
> 
> Sindarin notes:  
> Mellon = friend  
> Armath faeg = evil fate  
> Ni lassui = thank you.


	6. Awakening

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thorin finally regains consciousness after recovering from his poisoned wound. But when he's told that it was a wandering elf who saved his life, he's not best pleased…

Thorin woke up slowly, blinking in the firelight. The half-formed ghosts of shadows wavered in and out of view, flickering gold and grey until he blinked again, realizing that it was only the play of firelight on the canvas walls that had cast those eerie, mercurial shapes. Glancing to one side, he recognized the silhouette of Balin, who was hunched over tending the fire.  


‘Balin,’ he said – or at least tried to say. His throat was parched, and the word came out more as a croak than a true sound. Nevertheless, Balin looked up immediately, his wrinkled face wreathed in more smiles than Thorin had seen for a long time.  


‘Thorin,’ he breathed, eyes twinkling merrily. ‘It’s good to hear your voice again.’  


‘Yours too,’ muttered Thorin. He swallowed hard as Balin passed him a flask of fresh water. ‘What’s happening?’ He glanced around, his keen eyes taking in the furs, the banked fire, the unfamiliar medicine vials. ‘Balin?’  


Balin shook his head. ‘You’ve been out for a while, Thorin. That wound you got… it was worse than we feared. But,’ he added with another twinkle, ‘but you’re awake now, which is a blessing. Fili and Kili will be overjoyed.’  


Thorin groaned as a pang of guilt lanced through him. He was all the family they had in this world. If he’d died…  


_‘Uncle!’_  


That particular train of thought was derailed as a pair of bellowing, laughing dwarf princes descended on the tent, bursting through the flaps in an eager stampede.  


‘We were so worried – ’  
‘After all this time – ’  
‘You’ve been unconscious for days – ’  
‘What took you so long?’  


‘Boys,’ grunted Thorin, wincing as his relieved nephews pulled him into a bone-crushing hug. He cuffed them both gently, affectionately, on the back of the head.  
‘Now then lads,’ chuckled Balin. ‘Let your uncle breathe. He’s had a rough few days.’  


‘Days?’ asked Thorin. ‘How long?’  


‘Hmm.’ Balin hesitated. ‘Since you’ve been fevered? This is the eve of the sixth.’  


‘Six days.’ Thorin grunted and shook his head. ‘I should not have slept that long.’  


‘Aye, well ye had little choice in the matter.’ A rough voice sounded behind Balin, who stepped aside as Oin drew close, to kneel beside his King. ‘It does m’heart good to see your eyes open, Thorin.’  


Thorin nodded. ‘My thanks. Once again, you’ve proved your worth to this company.’  


‘That’s as may be,’ sniffed Oin, a hand on his brow, checking him over. ‘Although I’ve had little to do these past days. It’s her you should be thanking, lad.’  


‘Her?’ said Thorin. His gaze roved over the faces of the four dwarves before him. Suddenly, there appeared to be a lot of shuffling feet, and worried glances. Balin sighed deeply, eyeing his King nervously.  


‘Thorin…’ he began. ‘Things were bad. The poison in your shoulder…’  


‘You were dying,’ said Oin bluntly. He’d never been one to beat around the bush. ‘And there was naught I could do about it.’  


‘Aye,’ nodded Balin. His gaze travelled over Fili and Kili, hovering beside him, uncharacteristically silent. Internally he groaned. They’d never been told in so many words that their uncle had been so close to death.  


‘Oin sent us into the town,’ supplied Fili hesitantly, when neither Balin nor Oin seemed inclined to speak. ‘Kili and I went looking for a healer. And we found one.’  


‘A human?’ Thorin asked incredulously. It seemed hardly possible to him: either that a human healer could be found, who would be willing to help his rag-tag company of dwarves; or that a human healer would be more skilled, or more knowledgeable, than his trusted companion Oin.  


‘Not… exactly…’ mumbled Kili.  


‘What then?’ Thorin asked. ‘Who is she?’  


‘She’s an elf.’  


Fili gulped, watching anger etch deep lines into Thorin’s face, swift and thunderous as a sudden storm. For several seconds, he was unable to speak.  


‘An elf?’ he snarled eventually. ‘A bloody _elf?!’_ His breath was halting in his throat, so great was his anger and indignation. ‘Since when have the _elves_ cared one whit for us? For our people? They left us to die, to burn into nothing but ashes and bones beneath the feet of Smaug!’  


‘Thorin…’ Balin began, hands raised placatingly. But Thorin was having none of it.  


‘Where were the elves when Erebor fell? Where were the elves when our people were cast out, homeless and starving, into the wastes? Where were the elves when…’ He paused for breath, gasping. The dull ache in his shoulder had suddenly become a sharp, crystalline pain. In his rage he had pulled himself up from the bed too sharply, tugging at the wound. It was beginning to open once more. He could feel the warmth of fresh blood spreading into the bandages.  


‘Thorin,’ snapped Oin exasperatedly. ‘Please, laddie. You’ve not had a bite to eat or sup these past days. For the love of Mahal, at least eat something before you go and speak with her.’  


Thorin snorted derisively. ‘I’ll not exchange fair words with an elf. Faithless and accursed! They sat by watched as our home was invaded, our people violated, and they stood and did nothing! Nothing!’ He glowered up at Balin, who was still standing by with an expression of weary resignation.  


‘Fili, Kili,’ Balin muttered, ‘please go and fetch Thorin a bowl of Bombur’s stew.’  


The princes, who, Thorin noticed, had been looking incredibly awkward and sheepish for a while now, nodded and hurried off.  


‘Thorin,’ Balin began again, gently. ‘I’ve talked with this elf. She is… different to the others.’  


‘Different?’ sneered Thorin. ‘Different how?’  


‘She isn’t haughty, or disdainful, or cold. She answered all the questions I put to her plainly. She speaks kindly with the others: with Fili and Kili. They’ve grown to like her, I believe. Besides,’ he added mildly, ‘she did just save your life.’  


‘Hmpf.’ Thorin wrinkled his nose. ‘We can’t trust Thranduil’s folk, Balin.’  


‘And there’s the best part,’ replied Balin, the twinkle returning to his eyes. ‘She’s not one of Thranduil’s folk, y’know. I didn’t quite catch all the names she gave me, but as I understand it, she’s a different clan entirely. Different kin.’ He glanced sideways at the still-fuming Thorin, noting the darkish stain beginning to show beneath the neat white bandages. ‘In fact, she had some rather unkind things to say about that faithless woodland sprite. I believe ‘appalled’ was the word she used.’  


‘That’s as may be,’ muttered Thorin. ‘I still don’t trust her.’  


‘I’m not asking you to,’ sighed Balin exasperatedly. ‘Still, she helped us when she had no need to, no motive: and she saved your life. You should give her thanks, if nothing else.’  


Thorin groaned. To owe his life to anyone, he would have found hard. But to owe it to an elf, of all people? And a female at that? It was beyond endurance! He put his head in his hands as Fili and Kili returned, each carrying a large bowl of Bombur’s latest culinary delight. The savoury smells rose to fill the tent, and Thorin’s stomach gave a loud and undignified gurgle. 

‘We asked for two bowls,’ grinned Kili. ‘We weren’t sure how hungry you were, uncle.’  


‘We got bread too,’ added Fili. ‘It’s a little bit… well, Kili might have dropped some of it on the way back.’  


‘Did not!’ cried Kili, outrage written plainly on his face. ‘That was your fault, barging into me like some great clumsy mule – ’  


‘Kili!’ warned Balin. ‘Enough.’  


‘But Balin – !’  


‘Enough! Go on now, and get your own supper. We’ll join you shortly.’  


Fili nodded, tugging his brother out of the tent before he could open his big mouth again and tell Balin that they’d already eaten. A second helping was always a welcome thing for a growing young dwarf.  


Thorin sighed, and picked up the bowl. It did not look much, but it smelled delicious. ‘What is it?’ he asked.  


Balin shrugged. ‘Stew. Some kind of vegetable broth I believe, with some meat from the rabbits that Bifur and Bofur managed to snare yestereve.’  


Thorin took a mouthful. To his surprise, it tasted excellent. Bombur was a dab hand at cooking. His empty belly growled again, but this time it was a low, satisfied noise. Thorin ate quickly and with relish, feeling the ache in his gut receding, and his mind beginning to clear.  


‘Is the elf still in camp?’ he asked Balin between mouthfuls.  


‘Yes,’ his advisor nodded. ‘Sleeping, I believe, by one of the old watchfires.’ Balin watched smilingly as his leader continued to down great mouthfuls of stew. ‘You know, I don’t believe she’s eaten a single thing since she arrived here. If you do go and speak to her, you might take that second bowl along.’  


Thorin raised his eyebrows. ‘Nothing at all?’  


‘None of our food, anyway.’ Balin shrugged.  


Thorin curled his lip. ‘Perhaps it is too… _rustic_ for a refined elvish palate.’  


‘Thorin,’ said Balin warningly.  


The king raised one hand, a gesture of defeat. ‘Very well,’ he grumbled. ‘I will go and thank this… healer. I suppose it’s too much to hope that a bowl of stew will be sufficient payment for her services.’  


‘Aye,’ sighed Balin. ‘We’ve not yet discussed such things. She wanted to wait till you were awake; when she knew ye would live through the fever-sleep, as she called it.’  


‘Fever-sleep,’ muttered Thorin. ‘I still find it hard to credit…’ his grumbles tailed off as he hauled himself to his feet. A sharp pain stabbed through his shoulder once again. He winced, but ignored it, pulling on a shirt and wrapping the cloak Balin passed him closely around himself.  


‘There y’go lad,’ said Balin softly. ‘It’s good to see you on your feet.’ He smiled fondly at the glowering dwarf king, his oldest and dearest friend. ‘And try not to eat the elf alive. We owe her a debt, now. T’would be a shame to repay it so.’ He glanced back at Thorin’s shoulder, the bandages concealed beneath the heavy cloak. ‘Oh, and Thorin? Make sure Oin re-bandages that later.’  


Thorin rolled his eyes, stomping off with a single grunt of acknowledgement. He ignored the pain, and ignored the cold air that rolled over him as he stepped beyond the warm confines of the sick tent. The night sky was clear, speckled with stars, with the thin sliver of a crescent moon showing brightly above. He inhaled deeply.  


He was glad to be alive. He had known the wound was bad, before the fever had set in; before the poison had begun to spread. He remembered the dull, throbbing ache of it, the nausea; then the dizzying suddenness with which he'd grown weak and stumbling. He shivered. He never wanted to go through such an experience again.  


He set off around the small camp. The few dwarves that were still awake offered him smiles and congratulations. The open relief on their faces made Thorin wince internally, as guilt spiked once more within his gut. He was their leader: it was his responsibility to look after them. Not the other way around.  


He walked towards the outskirts of the camp, looking around for the strange she-elf. You couldn’t trust elves, after all. She could be anywhere. He paused, bowl of stew still in hand, beside an old watch fire that hand burned down to little more than embers. It was a place set further away from the main camp, and by the looks of it someone had dumped a pack of sorts beside it, and then covered it with an old blanket.  


It was only when he looked closer, that he realized that the blanket-covered bundle was, in fact, the sleeping elf.  


Thorin stepped closer. She was curled up in her own cloak, he realized. The hood had been drawn up before she’d settled, but part of it had fallen back, revealing an unfamiliar face with smooth, pale skin, and a small but sharp nose. She appeared to be sound asleep.  


Slowly, Thorin took another step towards her. The anger he’d felt earlier was still in his gut, coiled around and around itself like a sleeping serpent. But he was surprised to find it overlaid with a thin veil of curiosity. Who was she, he wondered. What had compelled her to help his people; to help him? Was it simply greed? Or pity?  


As if in answer to his thoughts, he watched as her eyes blinked slowly open, heavy-lidded with sleep. But as they opened wider and settled upon him, he felt his breath hitch as a memory rose up, unbidden.  


The company had been forced to ford a frozen river last winter. He remembered standing on the bank, staring at the grey ice gleaming beneath the light of a silver moon; how he could see glistening threads of blue and green moving beneath the frosted surface, hints of the free-flowing water below; how the moonlight had glanced off the rough edges of the frozen river. He remembered how he’d shivered, weighing the knowledge that one false step would plunge him straight through that same ice, into the blackened waters below.  


It was a pair of eyes the exact same colour as that frozen river ice that stared up at Thorin now, even as he felt that same lurching shiver; the sensation of standing on the edge of a precipice.  


He said nothing, simply stood and watched, as the elf slowly levered herself upright into a sitting position, crossing her legs and drawing her cloak closely about her. It was cold, he realized, standing there in the stiff autumn breeze, with only the embers of a burnt-out campfire for warmth. Without a word he stepped towards her, handing down the bowl of now-lukewarm stew. One pale hand reached out from beneath the cloak to accept it. Grey eyes latched onto his, and he felt rather than heard the thank you that was held within them.  


Wood, he thought to himself. Need more wood for the fire. He strode off without saying anything, gathering a small armful of kindling and a couple of heavier logs. Returning to the burnt-out fire, he then proceeded to tend it, breathing gently on the embers until they flared back into life and the new kindling caught, before placing the fresh logs where they would catch fire in turn.  


All this he did without looking directly at the elf. Those grey eyes, that sudden memory flash, had unsettled him. Only when the fire was burning again, throwing out a respectable amount of warmth, did he look back at her. She was eating, balancing the bowl on her knee, and holding the spoon daintily in slender fingers. But her eyes were not on the food. They were on him.  


He grunted as he settled himself beside the fire, opposite the elf, still close enough to feel tendrils of warmth wrapping around his body. He looked hard at her over the flames, still maintaining his silence. In all honesty, he did not know what to say.  


‘Thank you.’  


The elf had broken the silence, he realized with a start.  


‘For what?’ he replied, more gruffly than he’d intended.  


‘The food,’ she replied simply. He glanced down, and saw the bowl had been scraped clean. He waved a hand to cover his embarrassment.  


‘Balin said you might not have eaten yet,’ he muttered. He felt his face reddening. This conversation had not begun as he had planned.  


‘Master Balin is most astute,’ the elf said softly. ‘I had no stomach for food these past nights. But,’ she paused, and offered him the glimmer of a smile. ‘Had I known dwarven cooking was this good, I might have asked for a taste sooner.’  


‘Hmpf.’ Thorin let out a huff of breath through his nose. ‘Bombur’s cooking is considered… good, by elvish standards, is it?’ He did not bother trying to keep the sarcasm from his voice. She couldn’t honestly be complimenting the food. But when she did not reply, he was forced to look at her once again. There was no malice there, he realized. No sarcasm, or disdain. She’d been telling the truth.  


He huffed again, resettling the cloak around his shoulders. It was unnerving, this lack of enmity from her side. He had come here with anger in the pit of his stomach, the justified rage that had been burning ever since the elves had turned their backs on his people outside the burning gates of Erebor; and that anger still smoldered. But, he realized, Balin had been right. There was something different about this elf.  


‘What is your name?’ he asked roughly.  


‘Ithilrian,’ came the soft reply. ‘Ithilrian Tinnulenath, at your service, my lord.’ She inclined her head to him gracefully, a sort of sitting-down bow. He caught his breath in surprise.  


_‘Ithilrian Tinnulenath,’_ he repeated, trying to wrap his tongue around the strange syllables. ‘That is a strange name.’  


‘Part name, and part title.’ The elf maid said. ‘Ithilrian is my given name. But among my people I am known also as Tinnulenath, the Twilight Star.’ She raised one hand and pushed back her hood, revealing a braided mass of silver-white hair. It glimmered faintly in the moonlight.  


‘I see,’ grunted Thorin. The silence stretched out between them, and Thorin felt himself growing more and more uncomfortable. Ithilrian, however, seemed undisturbed.  


‘I am told that I owe you my thanks,’ Thorin began again. He cleared his throat awkwardly. ‘I remember little of what happened, but…’  


Ithilrian smiled faintly again. It really was barely a smile, Thorin thought to himself irritably. Just a slight crinkling of the delicate skin around her eyes, a slight upwards tug of her dark pink lips.  


‘You are most welcome,’ she replied. ‘It was fortunate I came when I did. A few more hours, and you would have been beyond my aid. But you have some strength in you.’  


‘Only some?’ Thorin snarled. ‘How kind of you to say so.’ She was calling him weak, he thought. The anger in his belly, never far away, began to rise again.  


‘I have offended you.’ The elf-maid interrupted swiftly, before he could continue. ‘Please forgive me, _hîr vuin_. It was not my intent. I referred to your spirit only. I was only able to find it, and pull it back from the darkness, because it shone so strongly.’  


‘I… what?’ Thorin hesitated, his anger baulked. ‘What do you mean?’ It seemed to him that the elf maid paused, and hesitated as well. Her grey eyes clouded slightly, and lost some of their focus, as if she were looking at something far away.  


‘Do you remember nothing of the fever-sleep?’ she asked him eventually.  


‘No,’ he replied. ‘Not much, anyway. Snatches of strange images… sounds too, maybe.’ He shook his head, allowing his braids to fall over his shoulders. ‘I have not thought on it overlong.’  


‘Nor should you,’ said Ithilrian. ‘I wonder… how much would you like me to tell you of what happened?’  


‘Oin told me that I was out for several days,’ said Thorin. ‘That I was unconscious, and that you tended me. He also said,’ he added, slowly and painfully, ‘he said that without you, I would be dead.’ He gritted his teeth. ‘I owe you my life.’  


Ithilrian shook her head slowly. ‘You owe me nothing, Thorin Oakenshield. Rather, it is I who owes you. An apology, small and insignificant as it might be, on behalf of my people.’ She paused, and Thorin could see definite hesitation on her face. So impassive, and so hard to read, elven expressions: yet here, on her delicate features, he saw an emotion he’d come to recognize: shame. He said nothing, holding his tongue.  


‘I… cannot speak for all my folk of course,’ she continued slowly. ‘I am a wandering healer only; I do not speak with the voice of a king or queen.’ It was as if the words were being slowly drawn from her, syllable by painful syllable. ‘Yet news reached me of… well, everything. I can see, and understand, the rage that burns within you. You have every right to hate my race. Yet I beg of you, not to mark us all with the memory of Thranduil’s folly.’ She took a deep breath, closing her eyes and folding her hands as though praying for strength. ‘For folly it was,’ she added softly, as though to herself. It was almost as if she had forgotten Thorin’s presence beside her. ‘For he is older than I; and he has endured more sorrows on this earth than joys. But I fear that sorrow, and fear, have marred his judgement. How could he not see that it was cowardice, not wisdom, to turn his back on Durin’s sons in their hour of greatest need?’ She heaved a sigh that seemed too heavy for her slender frame. Her eyes withdrew from the fire, focusing once more on the dwarf sitting, open-mouthed, in front of her. ‘My mother knew Durin once,’ she added conversationally. ‘She and he were good friends, before he was called to the Halls of Waiting.’  


‘Your mother… knew Durin?’ Thorin shook his head. Anger was still churning within him, but it was being swiftly outnumbered by curiosity and bewilderment.  


‘She did,’ affirmed Ithilrian. ‘We elves live longer than most, my lord. And my mother is one of the eldest that has remained behind, to walk these shores.’  


Thorin nodded slowly. It was all too much, he thought. This was the last thing he’d thought to wake up to. _Bloody elves, _he said to himself, but without much conviction. The idea that this elf in front of him was the daughter of one who had walked beside Durin himself… it was all too much to think about. Thorin shook his head tiredly. Despite his long time abed, what he needed right now was sleep.__  


‘You should return to your bed,’ Ithilrian said gently. Thorin groaned. It was as if the elf was reading his mind.  


‘I’ve spent the last six days in bed,’ he snapped back at her.  


‘Indeed,’ replied the elf, ‘but that was hardly what I would call rest. The body exhausts itself while the spirit is struggling, as yours did. As your healer, I recommend sleep, _hîr vuin.’_  


Thorin frowned. ‘What is that you call me?’  


‘ _Hîr vuin_. It means my lord, as we say it in Sindarin.’ She inclined her head slightly. ‘Forgive me again. I seldom hold conversations with any outside my own race; I find myself slipping into my own tongue, when I cannot find the words I mean to speak.’  


She seemed flustered, Thorin thought drowsily; insofar as an elf could appear as such. It was almost as if she… cared, he thought. A novel idea, and one he moved to quickly dismiss.  


‘Do not think on it,’ he barked gruffly. ‘We are grateful to you, and for your services. In terms of payment, we cannot offer much; but we have some small coin which will, I hope, recompense your time.’  


‘Nay,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘I will not take coin from folk with so little to spare. I need it not.’  


Thorin’s frown deepened. ‘You insult me once again, elf maid,’ he snapped.  


‘No, my lord,’ replied Ithilrian.  


She looked bewildered again, Thorin noticed. He had never seen an elf looking so lost. ‘Yet you do,’ he pressed. ‘To refuse payment in such a way means that you believe that both we, and our coin, are untrustworthy.’  


‘Oh.’ Ithilrian paused. ‘That’s not what I meant at all.’ She hesitated. A small smile tugged once again at the corners of her mouth. Thorin found himself staring again, noting the slight twitch and curve of her lips. ‘Thorin… I cannot take your coin. I would have little use for it, anyway. However, if you are determined to repay me somehow, then payment for my services may be rendered in another way.’  


‘How is that?’ asked Thorin.  


‘Take me with you,’ replied Ithilrain.  


‘What?’ Thorin shook his head, bewildered. ‘You mean…?’  


‘I mean that I know you will be moving on soon, once your shoulder is properly mended. I do not know where you are headed, or why. But I ask that when you do leave, you take me along with your company.’  


‘I don’t think…’ Thorin began, before hesitating. ‘Why?’ he asked.  


Ithilrian smiled again, but it was a soft, sad smile this time. ‘I have been wandering the wilds for many years now,’ she said slowly. ‘For longer than you have walked this earth, Thorin Oakenshield. For all that time, I have been alone. There comes a point when even a lone wanderer tires of her own shadow, and longs for the company of others.’  


Thorin’s frown deepened. ‘Wait… you want to come with us because… you’re lonely?’ It seemed so peculiar, such a strange request, that he could not quite believe that she was serious.  


‘Yes,’ came the simple reply. Ithilrian made no move, simply sat and held his gaze over the flickering fire, and allowed Thorin to search her grey eyes for meaning. He scanned her face. Her skin was so pale, so smooth, that he could barely believe what she had said; about the length of time she’d spent wandering. If she’d been a human female, he’d have guessed she was barely older than twenty. Yet when he allowed his gaze to return to her eyes, he felt as if a lead weight had been dropped into his stomach. They were _old_ eyes, he realized. Eyes that had known joy, and pain, and sorrow. Some of the most ancient dwarrows he’d known in Erebor had eyes like that, only theirs were not so deep; nor so sad; nor were they the same colour as frozen river ice beneath a silver moon.  


‘Perhaps,’ he muttered. ‘But I’ll have to speak with Balin about this.’  


‘Thank you,’ she replied. ‘I will await your decision.’  


He nodded to her, and stood up, brushing down his cloak. ‘I will think on it, and let you know by morning.’  


She remained sitting, but inclined her head towards him gracefully, in a half-bow that allowed her long pale hair to fall over her shoulders, glimmering part silver, and part gold from the firelight. ‘Till morning then, _hîr vuin_. Farewell.’  


Thorin grunted, acknowledging the farewell, before turning on his heel and striding away. He walked a little faster than was really necessary; but really, it was too much for him to think about right now. To much to believe that an elf of all people had helped him; had saved his life; had spoken more fairly to him than many other people, including other dwarves from different clans, ever had; and now, moreover, she wanted to join his company. Because she was lonely. No, it was really too much for Thorin to think about right now, as he stepped back inside the tent and sank gratefully down into the warmth of his furs. He’d tell Balin later, he decided. No need to wake the old dwarf at this hour. He yawned. Sleep, he decided. Sleep was almost certainly in order.  


_‘As your healer, I recommend sleep, hîr vuin.’_ Ithilrian’s words echoed in his ears as he allowed himself to drift off, wrapped in the warmth of the banked fire and his familiar furs. _Your healer_ , she’d said. _I suppose I could get used to that,_ thought Thorin drowsily, as he sunk slowly into the blessed realm of dreamless sleep.

~ 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the massively long chapter folks! This one got away from me too. Although, I think I'm quite pleased with how it's turned out. Apologies again for any mistakes, grammar and otherwise; it's like 2 am at time of posting, and I ran out of coffee hours ago. 
> 
> Sindarin glossary: 
> 
> Hîr vuin = my lord.
> 
> Also, if anyone's wondering, Ithilrian's second name, or title, (Tinnulenath) is one I made up after searching through some elvish translation sites. It's taken from the Sindarin words 'tinnu', meaning twilight, and 'elenath' meaning star. Kind of like Arwen Evenstar, I guess.


	7. Attempting Sleep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A short chapter, in which Ithilrian reflects on talking to Thorin for the first time, and realises just how blue his eyes are - when they're not closed in fever-sleep, that is.

The echo of Thorin’s receding footsteps resounded in Ithilrian’s ears like blows, long after he’d left her beside the fire. She remained seated, folded in on herself, keeping her expression carefully blank and hoping that no one in camp could hear the frantic hammering of her heart. 

It was bewildering, she thought, how much had changed within her. She had spent so many years alone, without friend or kin, wandering from one settlement to the next, dispensing healing salves and helping the sick, only accepting payment in the form of a hot meal and a safe bed for the night. It was a self-enforced exile, one she’d chosen willingly; and one she had intended to maintain. Yet here she was, her heart pounding frantically, hoping to be accepted as a part of this strange company of dwarves. Slowly, she raised one hand, and placed it over her heart, wondering at the strange, warm glow that overlaid the deep, wrenching ache that had settled there. 

She shook her head. She had indeed been deeply asleep when Thorin approached; yet many years of travelling alone had sharpened her natural senses. She had awoken groggily, ready to curse the sound of booted feet, until her eyes had fully opened and taken in the sight of Thorin Oakenshield, awake and standing before her. It had been a struggle not to leap to her feet then and there, to hurl her arms around him and thank the Valar that he had awoken from the fever-sleep. 

She groaned, and lowered her head, burying it in her hands. By the Lady Varda, the way he had looked at her! She had felt his pent-up rage like a physical blast of heat; but despite that, all she could think was: _blue. His eyes are blue. Of course they are. Silly, how could they have been any other colour?_

She huffed a frustrated breath through her fingers. No, that would not do at all. They were more than just blue. They were the colour of crystal clear mountain pools, deep and dark with hidden promise; they were twin cut sapphires, set into a statue of carven stone; they were the deep, rich colour of midsummer nights, when the sun was setting and the sky was darkening towards dusk. They were all of those things, and more. 

They were also radiating anger, resentment, and frustration; and they had been staring directly at her. 

She groaned again with embarrassment, and lay back down beside the flickering campfire, tugging her cloak back into position and closing her eyes. It was not how she had imagined their first conversation. She had not meant to be so bold. She had meant so simply dip her head and remove herself from the company when asked; to hide the pain it would have given her, both physical and emotional, to abandon the other half of her soul. So, when her startled ears had heard her own mouth asking to stay with him, and telling him she was lonely, she had been just as shocked as he clearly was. 

‘Foolish child,’ she muttered to herself, allowing waves of sweet sleep to come creeping back upon her. ‘Foolish, hopeful child.’ She curled herself tightly beneath her cloak like a cat, and waited once more for the blessed relief of dreamless sleep. But such rest was not forthcoming. 

_‘Ithilrian,’_ she heard a soft voice calling. _‘Ithilrian…’_

It was no dwarven voice that she heard calling. Sleep had come upon her, and Ithilrian could feel her body, lying still and breathing deeply beside the fire. But the voice yet wove through the elf’s sleeping mind, low, rich, and melodious; a voice she had not heard for several hundred years. It belonged to the ruler of the Golden Wood herself: Galadriel, Lady of Light, upon whose slender finger sat Nenya, the ring of water, fairest of the Three. Ithilrian sighed internally. The Lady of Lórien’s timing, as always, was impeccable.

‘Hello, mother,’ Ithilrian replied.

~


	8. Galadriel's Warning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Lady Galadriel tries to offer some motherly advice to her wandering daughter.

_‘May the beauty of Varda’s light shine upon you always, my daughter.’_ The soft voice of the Lady of Lórien wove a spell around Ithilrian, comforting and familiar. She felt her body smile, even in sleep. With great care she summoned the craft her mother had taught her, and pulled her thoughts away, up from the earthly weight of her body, sending her spirit up into the shimmering dream realm where an apparition of her mother was waiting. 

_‘Mae g'ovannen,’_ murmured Ithilrian.

_‘Elen síla lúmenn' omentielvo,’_ replied Galadriel softly. She hovered in Ithilrian’s thoughts, her face as beautiful and ageless as ever Ithilrian remembered. She was smiling. ‘You are forgetting your Quenya lessons, child,’ she chided gently, with a smile.

‘Not forgetting,’ replied Ithilrian. ‘But it is rare that I have a chance to speak it these days. I must speak Westron with mortal folk, or Sindarin with the younger elves. But it is good to see you, _ammë._ ’ 

‘And you too.’ The Lady’s smile widened, the delicate skin around her eyes crinkling warmly. ‘It has been to long, _yelya._ I haven’t set eyes on you since...’ 

‘Since Celebrian departed,’ finished Ithilrian, unable to keep the bitterness from her voice. ‘Since we watched her sail to Valinor.’ Ithilrian halted, unable to speak for a moment around the stone of grief lodged in her throat. ‘I lost my sister that day.’

‘And I lost a daughter,’ replied Galadriel. ‘You are not alone in your sorrow, child. Remember that.’ She subjected her daughter to a long, searching gaze. Ithilrian shivered beneath the closeness of her scrutiny, the intimacy of it. Her mother had always been able to see into her mind and heart. As a child, Ithilrian had grown used to it. But now, with the strange new feelings that had begun to blossom within her, she felt mightily uncomfortable. 

Eventually, the Lady of Lórien withdrew her searching gaze. ‘I was going to suggest that it was time you returned to your homeland, Ithilrian. The people of Lothlórien miss you dearly. I hoped that, at last, your grief and rage might be spent. Yet I see in your heart that this is not the case.’ 

‘No, _ammë,_ ’ replied Ithilrian softly. ‘I cannot go back yet. There are too many memories. You’re right; what was done to Celebrian, and what happened after, is a wound I cannot seem to recover from. But…’ she hesitated, looking up helplessly into her mother’s deep blue gaze, trying to draw some comfort from it. ‘There is a further… complication.’ 

‘I know,’ replied Galadriel gently. ‘I can see it in your heart, child. You are in love.’ 

‘Yes,’ Ithilrian whispered. ‘But he is mortal. And I fear… I fear that he will never be able love me in return.’

Galadriel tilted her head to one side and smiled: a small, knowing smile. ‘Do not fear too much for the future, Ithilrian. Dark days lie ahead of us; yet often joy can be found, unlooked for. Never resign yourself to despair. But what I will say is: be wary. Try to hold back a little of your heart, for I fear that if you offer it entirely you will suffer a great hurt.’ Her voice deepened, gentle and mellow like the echo of golden bells. ‘I would not wish such pain upon you, my love. I would protect you, if I could. Yet some things are out of even my power to control.’ 

‘Then… you do not forbid me?’ asked Ithilrian, eyes shining.

‘No. I only counsel caution. For mortal lives are brief, fleeting things: bright sparks among the endless night, that burn out all too swiftly. Yet perhaps they are all the more beautiful for that.’ She paused, as is contemplating something. ‘However, even if I were to forbid it, I doubt you would obey me,’ she added, with a deep, sonorous chuckle. ‘You are my daughter, after all; and daughters of the line of Finwë are not easily swayed once their minds are made up.’ 

Ithilrian giggled. ‘Aye, _ammë._ You speak the truth in that.’ 

Galadriel smiled again, fondly. ‘Be safe, Ithilrian Tinnulenath, my first star of twilight.’ 

‘I shall,’ replied Ithilrian, dipping her head respectfully. 

‘Good.’ The Lady of Lórien nodded. ‘I shall leave you now. You shall need your strength, come morning. You have a long journey ahead of you. _Namárië.’_

‘A journey?’ Ithilrian echoed. ‘What kind…?’ But before she could finish the question, Galadriel was gone, the vision fading as swiftly as smoke on the morning breeze. 

_Oh, by the Valar,_ Ithilrian thought, feeling her consciousness sinking back into her body, grateful for the deep, grounding pull of it. _What did she mean by that? Will Thorin accept me for his journey? Or will I be cast aside, to wander alone once more?_ Ithilrian sighed deeply to herself. She felt soft waves of dreamless sleep lapping at the edges of her consciousness, wondering what the morning would bring, her heart filled with both fear and hope in equal measure.

~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Elvish translation notes:
> 
>  
> 
> Mae g'ovannen = Well met (Sindarin)  
> Elen síla lúmenn' omentielvo = A star shines on the hour of our meeting (Quenya)  
> Ammë = Mother (Quenya)  
> Yelya = My daughter (Quenya)  
> Namárië = Farewell (Quenya)
> 
> Trust me to spend ages getting my Sindarin and Quenya translations all muddled up. Le sigh. 
> 
> Also, I just can't shake the image of Galadriel getting annoyed that her daughter isn't automatically speaking Quenya (the older of the elvish languages, traditionally spoken by the Noldor), and shaking her head in a 'young people these days' kind of way. Just makes me giggle. 


	9. A Decision Is Made

Thorin woke with a groan. He realized too late that he’d fallen asleep hunched by the fire, curled into an awkward position that had put pressure on his weakened shoulder. He glanced around hastily, to see if anyone was awake to notice his moment of weakness. Thankfully, Fili and Kili were the only ones in the tent; and if the volume of their snoring was anything to go by, they were both still sound asleep. With another groan, Thorin dragged himself upright. His bones were aching and his joints were stiff, and as he moved he felt another pull at his injured shoulder. He had definitely re-opened the wound last night, he realized. Pain lanced through him, and he bit his lip in an effort not to cry out. 

‘Ah, there you are laddie.’ Balin had pushed open the flap of the tent, and wandered in smiling, pipe in one hand and breakfast in the other. ‘I was wondering when you’d wake. How are you feeling?’ 

‘Better,’ grunted Thorin, gritting his teeth against the pain, and taking the proffered breakfast in both hands. It was a bowl of honeyed oatmeal, which he began to spoon down with gusto. He hadn’t realized he was so hungry.

‘Aye, I can see that,’ commented Balin dryly, observing the speed at which the oatmeal was disappearing. ‘You’re back to your old breakfast-thieving ways, I see.’  


Thorin halted mid-spoonful. ‘Balin…’ he began reproachfully. But the old dwarf only chuckled and patted him on his good shoulder. 

‘Don’t worry lad. I brought it for you. We need to see you fit and strong again, as soon as may be possible.’ He prodded his unlit pipe contemplatively. ‘How are you feeling in yourself, if I may ask? I’m hoping for a more eloquent answer than ‘better’ this time.’ His eyes glimmered humorously, but Thorin could tell that underneath his gentle words lay genuine concern. 

‘I am feeling better, Balin, truly,’ he replied. ‘I feel… stronger. Less empty. The shoulder… still hurts,’ he added, shifting slightly and wincing. ‘But it will mend.’ 

‘Aye, that it will.’ Balin nodded thoughtfully. ‘I’ll have Oin make you up a pain draught. And by the by, how did your little chat with our resident healer go?’ he added. ‘I heard no shouting, and didn’t wake to find the camp burned to a cinder, so by my reckoning you must’ve been reasonably civil,’ he added with a twinkle. 

Thorin hummed a frustrated sigh through his nose. ‘I don’t know. I… went. Spoke with her. You were right, old friend. She is different to other elves.’ He wrinkled his nose at the word elves. ‘But that still doesn’t mean…’ 

‘…doesn’t mean that you trust her. I know.’ Balin sighed and rolled his eyes theatrically. ‘Honestly, Thorin. Did you discuss payment?’ 

‘We did. And that is something I must in turn discuss with you.’ 

‘Oh?’ replied Balin. ‘What do you mean?’ 

Thorin sighed, scraping the last of the oatmeal from his bowl. ‘I mean that she will not accept our coin; instead, as payment, she wishes to be allowed to accompany us on our journey.’ 

Balin’s tufted eyebrows shot right into his hairline with surprise. ‘Truly?’ he asked.

‘Indeed,’ nodded Thorin. ‘It was a strange request. Especially from an… _elf.’_ He turned the word around in his mouth, somehow managing to imbue it with the same level of disgust as _cockroach._ He frowned scornfully. ‘After all,’ he added, ‘what sane elf would wish to remain in the company of a band of dwarves? Furthermore, what self-respecting group of dwarves would travel with an elf?’ 

Balin shrugged helplessly. ‘Tis strange, no doubt. Does she know where we’re headed?’

Thorin shook his head. ‘She says not. But I do not…’ 

Balin sighed. ‘Do not trust her, yes, I know. So, what did you say to her? Aye or nay?’ He narrowed his eyes. ‘You did give her an answer, I assume?’ 

Putting aside his empty bowl, Thorin folded his arms defensively. ‘No. I did not. I… was tired, and the request was unexpected. I didn’t know what to say. So I told her I’d think on it, and let her know by morning.’ 

‘By morning,’ echoed Balin. ‘The morning which is upon us right now, yes?’

‘Yes.’ Thorin groaned, running a hand through his long fall of dark hair. ‘I wanted to see what you thought about it all, old friend. I am in two minds about everything. I mean… she’s an elf! An _elf!_ The last person I’d trust my life to on the road. And yet…’ he ran his hand through his hair again and sighed. _And yet she has dealt more fairly with you than anyone has for a long time; even your own kin,_ his inner thought supplied. 

Balin nodded kindly. ‘And yet she saved your life, and bringing her along would be a repayment of the blood debt. I understand, Thorin.’ 

Thorin nodded absentmindedly. He wasn’t sure if Balin did understand, but he wasn’t about to tell his old friend that. He was feeling terribly confused; and he did not like it. On the one hand, she was an elf, and therefore clearly an enemy. On the other… he had seen no malice within her, and she’d spoken to him with a gentle, old-fashioned courtesy. Really, was it so great a price that she asked? The memory of those eyes, the same colour as the frozen river under a silver moon, shivered through him again. 

‘…maybe we should go speak with her together?’ Balin was saying. Thorin nodded, grateful for the distraction. 

‘You’re right, as usual,’ he grunted. ‘Maybe together we can find out more of her motivation.’ 

‘That wasn’t… quite what I had in mind,’ muttered Balin, glancing at him askance. ‘But it will do. Come on lad. Let’s take her some breakfast while we’re at it.’ 

~

Approaching the smoldering embers of the watch fire, Thorin eyed the cloaked figure that lay beside it with increasing suspicion. She seemed hardly to have moved since he first saw her, curled in on herself like a sleeping cat. But once again, she seemed to wake at their approach; he recognized that strange, slow blink, which quickened into keen awareness when she recognized her visitors. 

‘Good morning!’ said Balin cordially. ‘I hope we’re not disturbing you?’ He kept his tone light and cheerful. Beside him, Thorin glowered. 

‘My greetings,’ replied the elf. She pulled herself into a sitting position once more, pushing back her hood and offering them a small, shy smile. ‘And, my apologies. Last night’s dreams were fretful, and I fear I have slept late.’ 

‘Not at all,’ replied Balin cheerfully, settling himself beside the embers of the fire. ‘Dawn is barely broken, but breakfast is served. Would you care for a bowl of honeyed oatmeal?’

‘I… would like that very much,’ replied Ithilrian cautiously. She shifted uncomfortably beneath the smoldering heat of Thorin’s gaze. Her heart was beginning to thump so loudly she was sure the dwarf could hear it. 

‘I’ll have the boys bring you one,’ said Balin, smiling. ‘But first, I think we have a thing or two to discuss, hmm?’ He prodded the embers of the fire with a small stick. ‘I believe you’ve already spoken with Thorin?’ he added casually, glancing up at the stern figure of the King-In-Exile-Under-The-Mountain, who still stood, arms stubbornly folded, beside him. ‘Come on, laddie. Why don’t you take a seat?’ 

Thorin grunted, and slowly lowered himself into a sitting position beside Balin. The action tugged at his wounded shoulder, and the breath hissed through his teeth.

‘Now now, Thorin,’ said Balin mildly, having taken the hiss as a sign of anger. 

The elf, however, noticed. She fixed the King with a questioning stare, eyes flickering towards his shoulder and back again. She seemed to be asking if he was in pain, Thorin realized. Moreover, she was doing it without words, so as not to alert Balin; who was still prodding at the embers of the fire, trying to light his pipe. He felt a sudden, unexpected surge of gratitude: which he was careful to keep hidden. He lowered his brows and glowered at her, offering a tiny shake of his head, hoping to put her off. He was not weak, he thought fiercely. He did not need to be fussed and fretted over like a young dwarfling. 

Once again, it was as though the elf was reading his mind. Her eyes narrowed, and a slight frown creased her brow. But she withdrew her questioning gaze; not, however, before she’d shot him a glance that said, very clearly, _we will discuss this matter later._ Thorin groaned internally. He’d been on the receiving end of glances like that before. 

‘Now then,’ said Balin, who had finally managed to get his pipe lit, and was puffing away merrily. He had apparently remained completely oblivious to the silent exchange occurring between Thorin and Ithilrian. ‘Now then, hmm? Lass, sorry, Miss Ithilrian? Our King here told me you have asked for an… unconventional means of payment for your services.’ 

Ithilrian turned her gaze to Balin, and her faced softened into a slight smile. ‘Please, Master Balin. I left any titles that I possessed behind when I left my homeland. So just Ithilrian will do. And yes, I understand the request was… perhaps unexpected.’ 

‘Aye,’ nodded Balin. ‘So you understand we can’t just say yes or no straight away, hmm? For one, you don’t even know where we’re headed.’

‘I do not,’ Ithilrian admitted. 

‘Then why do you wish to come along?’ asked Thorin roughly. 

Ithilrian shrugged. ‘I never know where my feet may take me next, so an unknown destination does not trouble me. And I have a… sense, a feeling perhaps, that my services may be of further use to you.’ She raised her chin defiantly, and looked the glowering Thorin right in the eye. ‘I will not be a burden,’ she added. ‘I can walk as far and fast as you. I can hunt, and forage. My eyes and ears are keener than many mortal folk, so I could scout for you as well.’

‘Can you fight?’ grunted Thorin, looking the slender maid up and down with ill-concealed cynicism. His expression turned into one of surprise when the elf drew back her cloak, revealing a pair of twin daggers sheathed either side of her hip.  


‘I have travelled much of Middle Earth these past few hundred years, my lord Thorin; dangerous, and inhospitable places. What do you think?’

Thorin snorted, trying to conceal his shock. ‘I hardly think those pretty knives of yours are what I’d call a real weapon.’ Inwardly he shook himself. Of course she’d be armed, he thought. He’d been a fool not to expect that. And, judging by the defiant glint in her eye, he’d been a fool to insult her fighting prowess too. Elves lived for hundreds - thousands - of years, after all. She must be at least a passable fighter by now. 

‘Pretty they may be,’ replied Ithilrian, her voice sweet and mellow, but with a hint of challenge. ‘But deadly, too, in the right hands. I also carry a shortbow. It’s more for hunting than anything else; but it has proved useful for ambushes more than once.’ 

‘Hunting?’ interjected Balin, shooting a pained look at Thorin and nudging him in the ribs when he opened his mouth to sneer. ‘Miss elf… I mean, Ithilrian… I wasn’t aware elves hunted for meat in their forests.’ 

Ithilrian turned back towards Balin. ‘We don’t, usually,’ she replied. ‘At home, we have no need to eat the flesh of other creatures, and hunting within in the bounds of the Golden Wood is forbidden. At least, hunting anything other than orcs or stray goblins.’ A sly smile danced across her face. ‘That, however, is positively encouraged. But,’ she shrugged, gesturing to the lands surrounding their small camp. ‘Needs must, Master Balin. Besides,’ she added, raising an eyebrow and smiling slightly, ‘I’m a rather good shot, if I say so myself.’ 

‘Indeed,’ smiled Balin, nodding. ‘Well, that is good news. We dwarves are not natural archers. In fact, young Kili is the only one amongst us that carries a bow. It would be a fine thing, if you could help us keep our good cook Bombur plentifully supplied on the road?’ 

‘Yes,’ replied Ithilrian, ‘I can hunt for you.’ 

‘Hmm,’ replied Balin, nodding his head thoughtfully. ‘Well, come on Thorin. Let’s go fetch breakfast for our… guest. Please excuse us, Miss. We need to mull this over. I’m sure you understand.’ 

‘I do,’ Ithilrian nodded. ‘I will await your decision.’ 

She was surprised, as she watched Thorin and Balin walking away. Ithilrian had not expected the dwarves to give her absurd request serious consideration. Yet they were. Remaining seated at her campfire, Ithilrian closed her eyes. The two dwarves were some distance away, discussing her in low voices. Yet they clearly still underestimated the power of elvish hearing. Ithilrian smiled to herself, and allowed her attention to drift towards them.

_‘… I see no harm in it,’_ Balin was saying. _‘If she truly wants to come along. She may prove a useful asset.’_

_‘I still do not know her motives.’_ That was Thorin, his voice low and smoky, sending whispering shivers down Ithilrian’s spine. _‘Until I do, I shall not trust her.’_

_‘Agreed. But this may prove to be a blessing in disguise, Thorin.’_

_‘So you say. We shall see.’_

_‘Well, we might at least eat better, at any rate.’_

Ithilrian’s eyes slammed open in shock. She just had time to recompose her expression before Thorin and Balin appeared again, Thorin wearing his customary scowl, and Balin carrying a steaming hot bowl of oatmeal. 

‘Here y’are lass,’ smiled Balin. ‘This should help to keep your strength up. Welcome to the Company of Thorin Oakenshield.’ 

Ithilrian dipped her head respectfully, doing her best to hide the extent of her delight. ‘My thanks, Master Balin, and my lord Oakenshield.’

Thorin grunted, averting his eyes from her gaze. ‘Pack whatever you need. We leave within the hour.’ 

~


	10. Breaking Camp

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the dwarves get ready to move on, and Thorin does his best to refuse further medical treatment. Of course, it doesn't quite go as he'd expected...

The thirteen dwarves struck camp quickly and efficiently. Thorin looked around with an approving nod. Packs were being tied and and placed back on the carts, the ponies were being harnessed, and the campfires were being doused. He ducked back into his tent, which would soon be the only structure still standing; and right now, was the only place he could still have some privacy. He winced, trying to ease the pain in his shoulder. He'd dressed carefully, in his customary layers of cloth, leather, and mail; and they were weighing heavily on his wound.

'My lord Thorin?'

He whipped around quickly. He hadn't heard her enter, but behind him stood the strange elf. He glared at her. It was the first time he'd been able to observe her properly. She was tall; as freakishly tall as all the Big Folk were, thought Thorin irritably. But she was slender too, and walked towards him with a lithe, sinuous grace that made him think of the giant mountain cats that lurked in high mountain caverns. She was dressed all in grey, with her cloak cast back, revealing a long fall of silver-white hair. A bow and a quiver of grey-fletched arrows protruded over her shoulder. She was looking at him questioningly.

'What do you want?' He said gruffly.

'To re-bandage your shoulder, while there is still time,' she answered.

'My shoulder is just fine,' he replied. Frustration at his own weakness snaked hotly through his veins. 'I do not need you to hover around me like an overbearing nursemaid.'

'Yet the wound still gives you pain,' replied the elf. 'I saw it in you this morning, when you sat beside the campfire; and I see it yet within you now.'

'In that case, you can stop looking,' he snapped. 'I am strong, I can manage.'

She tilted her head to one side. 'Surely it would be sensible to take advantage of this relative peace, and safety, to re-affix your bandages, if we are to endure a long day of travel? You will only make it worse, and delay the healing process, if you don't.'

Thorin positively snarled at her. 'I will heal in my own time. I don't need an elf-maid telling me how a dwarf should deal with his own wound!'

Ithilrian stepped back, narrowing her eyes. 'I see,' she replied softly. 'This must be the infamous pride and stubbornness of dwarves, that I have heard so much about.'

'What?' sputtered Thorin, outraged. 'How dare you!'

Ithilrian stepped back, raising her hands defensively. 'I don't wish to insult you. But... what else am I to call it, when a leader such as yourself refuses aid in this manner? You need to return to full strength, Thorin, as soon possible. My heart tells me you will need it.'

Thorin paused, insults and accusations on the tip of his tongue. He hesitated. The elf-maid's grey eyes were looking him doubtfully. She looked genuinely confused; as if his refusal of her attentions was something she simply did not understand. He groaned. She was right, he knew it; the shoulder was giving him pain, and the last thing he wanted was for the wound to become infected.

'Uncle?' Fili was standing at the tent flap, beside a large, rough-looking dwarf, whose twin battleaxes and tattoos were almost as fearsome as his expression.

'Baggage is all packed. This is the last of it. Should we start taking down this tent, laddie?' the larger dwarf barked. The morning sun glinted off his brass knuckle-dusters as he shot a filthy look at Ithilrian. The elf made no sign of alarm, simply holding his gaze and raising a single eyebrow in return.

Thorin sighed deeply. 'No, not just yet Dwalin. We need this one for a moment. Apparently my shoulder needs further... attention.'

'Is that so,' snarled Dwalin. 'Yon elf has a mind to delay us already?'

'The wound has opened again,' replied Ithilrian simply. 'I fear re-infection if it's not dealt with.'

Thorin nodded towards his lieutenant. 'See to the carts, Dwalin. I will be with you shortly, tell Balin and the others.'

Dwalin grunted, before stomping off. Fili winked at Ithilrian before trotting after him. Thorin glanced back at the elf, mustering as much dignity as he could manage. 'You have your way, elf-maid. What do you need me to do?'

'To begin with,' she replied, 'you could try using my name.' She smiled gently, unslinging her pack. 'I will need you to sit,' she continued. 'And I will also need access to your shoulder.'

'Very well,' Thorin sighed, slumping to the floor with bad grace. He began the process of unbuckling his overtunic, while Ithilrian undid her pack and began rummaging within.

'What is it you search for?' He asked, eyeing the small packets and vials suspiciously.

'Feverfew, willow bark, poppy distillate,' she replied, lifting each item in turn. 'Bandages too,' she added over her shoulder. 'As well as water and a drinking-cup.'

'What's that for?'

'Your pain draft,' she replied. 'I warn you now, it will taste bitter; but it will dull the pain and allow you to travel more easily.'

'Hmpf,' grunted Thorin, wincing as he tugged off his mail shirt. 'This had better be worth it, she-elf.'

'My name,' she reminded him mildly, 'is Ithilrian, my lord.'

Thorin grunted again. He busied himself unlacing the neck of his undershirt, the final layer of clothing shielding his skin from the cold morning air. He gritted his teeth, pulling the shirt over his head and wincing again as a sharp stab of pain reminded him why he was here. The elf-maid... Ithilrian, he mentally corrected himself, had her back to him. She was pouring water from a leather flask into a small wooden cup.

'Is that the pain draft?' He asked roughly.

'It will be,' she replied, before turning around and pausing. There was a long moment of silence, where elf and dwarf stared at each other. Something was flickering deep within her eyes, Thorin thought. Something unfamiliar, that he didn't have a name for. He leaned closer, wishing he could look deeper. She seemed somehow sad, he thought. Sad, and afraid, and... something else.

'My lord?' said Ithilrian softly.

'Hmm?' Thorin snapped back to the present. 'Yes. The drink?'

'Here.' She placed the cup on the ground and gathered her medicines. 'So you know what you'll be drinking. This is a distillate of willow bark,' she said, picking up a large vial and adding a capful to the water. 'This is feverfew, the roots dried and ground,' she continued, taking a pinch of a brownish powder from the undone paper packet. 'It will make it taste bitter,' she added. 'But it will guard against fever and further infection. And this...' She pulled out a small glass vial, allowing a few drops to fall into the cup. 'This is concentrated white poppy essence. Only a little at a time, for the pain.' She re-corked the vial and stowed it in her pack, before swirling to concoction gently to mix it. 'Drink it quickly,' she advised.

Thorin took it from her, eyeing the brackish liquid distastefully. The smell was not too unpleasant, he thought; far less malodorous than some of the concoctions Oin brewed up. He lifted it to his lips and took an experimental sip. Immediately, his face creased in disgust.

'Down in one,' nodded Ithilrian, smiling sympathetically.

He pinched his nose and drank the rest down, forcing himself to swallow it all, right down to the dregs. 'Urgh,' he muttered. 'That tastes truly horrible.'

'I know,' sighed the elf, retrieving the cup and wiping it out with the hem of her cloak. 'But it works.' She stowed the cup in her pack again before turning back to the shirtless Thorin. 'Now, if I may...?'

'Yes,' grunted Thorin, settling himself more comfortably on the floor. Ithilrian put her pack aside, and knelt down beside him. Her slender hands tugged gently at the bandages, undoing the knots, unwrapping the linens from his muscular torso. Her hands skimmed lightly over his flesh, fingers tracing the curve of his shoulder. Thorin's heart gave a powerful, unfamiliar jolt beneath her touch.

 _What in Durin's name was that?_ he thought, trying to ignore the sudden, frantic pounding of his heart, the shortness of his breath, the rivulets of fire coursing through his veins. _Probably that drink,_ he thought. _Yes, almost certainly._

The breath hissed between his teeth as Ithilrian carefully peeled away the final layer of bandages. They were sticking to his skin, crusted with dried blood from where the wound had bled. Her eyes found his.

'Is everything all right?' she asked gently.

'Yes,' muttered Thorin. She was kneeling before him, so her face on a level with his. She was so close, he thought. So close he could reach out and touch her. Her eyes flickered down again, looking at the wound, assessing, calculating. He found himself staring at her, watching the gentle flutter of her eyelashes, like dark grey moths; the twist of her mouth as she pursed her lips, thinking. Her skin looked very soft, he thought. He wondered what it would feel like to touch.

'I will need to wash this.' Her voice broke in on his thoughts. She pulled away, already rummaging for a clean cloth and more water. 'It is healing well, I think; but the wound is deep, and I will take no chances.'

'Aye,' he replied, his voice rough. 'Do what you will.'

He held his breath, wincing as a cloth soaked in cold water was gently wiped across his skin. He glanced towards his shoulder. The wound was smaller than he remembered. He watched Ithilrian's hands move, gently but with assurance, as she coaxed away the layers of cracked and dried blood, cleaning the wound and the flesh all around.

'There,' she said eventually. 'That will have to do, for now. I will re-bandage it for you. Tell me, are you in much pain?'

'No,' he said gruffly. She raised a single eyebrow, looking at him sceptically. 'No,' he repeated, struggling to modulate his tone. 'I believe the drink you gave me has... taken effect.'

'Good,' she nodded. 'Now, please remain still.' She pressed a pad of soft white cotton over the wound, holding it in place with one hand, while the other skilfully re-wrapped the linen bandages around his shoulder and upper chest. Thorin's heart gave another powerful pulse whenever he felt the warmth of her hands, featherlight on his skin. All too quickly, she had finished.

'There,' she said, stepping back and smiling. 'As good as can be, for now. How does it feel? Not too tight?'

'No,' replied Thorin. He shifted experimentally, pulling the shoulder back, flexing his arm muscles to see where it still hurt. To his surprise, there was far less pain than formerly. He looked back towards her, not bothering to conceal his gratitude this time. 'Thank you,' he said.

She dipped her head towards him, a shy smile tugging at her lips. 'At your service, _hîr vuin,_ ' she replied softly. She fixed her eyes upon his for a moment. There was something there, thought Thorin; something that he did not understand. If he could just...

'Thorin?' Balin's voice sounded just outside the tent. Thorin nearly swallowed his tongue.

'Ah, Thorin. There y'are laddie. And you too, Miss Ithilrian. How's our King doing, do you think?'

'Master Balin,' Ithilrian greeted him, rising gracefully to her feet.

'Balin,' grunted Thorin, grabbing his undershirt and pulling it over his freshly bandaged chest. 'How goes it?'

'Well enough,' replied Balin with a twinkle. 'Just waiting on this tent, then we can be back on the road.'

'You may have it,' replied Thorin, standing up and struggling back into his mail shirt. 'We are done here.' He turned to the elf maid beside him and offered her a short, polite bow. 'My thanks, Miss Ithilrian.'

'Just Ithilrian, my lord,' she replied softly. 'Please, just Ithilrian.'

~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hooray! Another chapter finished! ^_^ I hope y'all like where I'm trying to take this story, it seems reluctant to move very fast! Every time I think, 'right, let's shift this plot along,' the story's all like 'nope, more character development please!' Oh well... 
> 
> Sindarin:  
> hîr vuin = my lord.


	11. First Day of Travelling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the dwarves and Ithilrian _finally_ get on the road… and have rather a sudden encounter.

The morning had broken, clear and calm. The sky was as blue as forget-me-nots, streaked with pale wisps of cloud. The dwarves and Ithilrian were travelling west, through the Lost Realm of Arnor, making for the mountain fastness of Ered Luin. The sun was shining brightly, but despite that there was yet a bitter chill in the air. 

Autumn had come on fast this year, mused Ithilrian as she walked at the back of the line of travelling dwarves. The leaves on the trees were beginning to fade, turning to gloriously marbled reds and golds. She could sense the changes happening all around her, breathing in the faint smell of ripening nuts and dark fruit, feeling the crackle of crisp leaves beneath her boots. She smiled. Her heart was singing as she strode lightly in the rear of the dwarven caravan, and she felt a flush of unfamiliar joy spreading through her that was not due only to the changing of the season. 

Up ahead, she could catch glimpses of Thorin Oakenshield, striding purposefully at the head of the column beside Balin and Dwalin. Her smile widened. It was a lovely sight. His long, midnight hair flowed elegantly down the back of his fur coat, and occasionally she could catch a glimpse of the King’s chiseled cheekbone and aquiline nose as he turned his head to converse with his companions. She shook her head and laughed quietly to herself. The professional side of her was delighted to see her patient back on his feet, and healing well. The rest of her soul was thrumming with delight at the mere sight of him. _If only the family could see me now,_ she thought wryly. _They’d never let me live this down._

‘Miss Ithilrian?’ 

She snapped away from her own thoughts, and back to the real world. Fili was waking beside her, a companionable smile on his face. 

‘Greetings, Fili,’ she replied warmly. ‘How goes it?’ 

The young dwarf grinned back. ‘Fine. I just… we saw you laughing, and we wondered what you were thinking about.’ 

‘We?’ queried Ithilrian. 

‘Yup,’ grinned Kili, who had dropped back from his place near the head of the group, and was now walking beside his brother. ‘Hello.’

‘I see.’ Ithilrian smiled. ‘Do you always come as a pair?’ 

‘We like to stick together,’ shrugged Fili carelessly. 

‘I noticed that,’ nodded Ithilrian. ‘I rarely see one of you without the other.’ 

‘That’s what family’s about,’ laughed Kili. ‘We’re brothers, so we watch each other’s backs.’ He shot a grin at Fili before turning a curious glance back onto the elf. ‘Do you have any brothers, Miss Ithil?’ 

‘That’s not her name,’ chided Fili, shoving him lightly. 

‘I know, but it’s easier to say,’ said Kili, shoving Fili back. ‘Do you mind, Miss Ithil? If we call you that?’ 

Ithilrian smiled fondly at the two youngsters. ‘I don’t mind. Call me what you will.’ 

‘See?’ grinned Kili. ‘Told you.’ He turned back to look up at her. ‘So what were you laughing at? Not one of us, was it?’ 

Ithilrian shook her head. ‘No. Merely my own thoughts.’ 

‘So what were you thinking?’ asked Fili. 

‘I was thinking about what my family would say if they saw me now,’ smiled Ithilrian. ‘My father would doubtless disapprove. He has always said I was reckless.’ 

‘And are you?’ asked Kili, a cheeky grin on his face. 

‘Yes.’ She flashed a swift grin at Kili, dazzlingly bright and lasting only for an instant. ‘I was always the wild one. If I wasn’t, I doubt I’d have joined you.’

Kili giggled. ‘I didn’t know elves could be reckless. I always thought they were…’ He hesitated, and shrugged. ‘Always going on about the natural harmony of Middle Earth, and trees, and their time being almost over or whatever. You know… boring.’ 

Fili elbowed his brother. ‘Don’t be so rude!’ he hissed. 

Ithilrian repressed a chuckle. She had grown oddly fond of the two young dwarves. Now that their uncle was out of danger, they were carefree and high-spirited, as well as being full of irrepressible questions. 

‘It’s all right. I understand that you haven’t met many elves before, and that I must seem very strange to you.’ She smiled down at the two eager faces. ‘What do you wish to know?’ 

‘You said your father would disapprove,’ said Kili. ‘Why? Of what?’ 

Ithilrian shrugged. ‘He never wanted me to leave the Golden Wood in the first place. I dare say he would disapprove of most things I’ve done since I’ve been gone. He thinks I’ll get myself into trouble.’ 

Kili nodded sagely. ‘It’s like that with us too. Uncle thinks we’re too young to be left alone for five minutes without…’ 

Fili elbowed him in the ribs. ‘That’s because you’re a troublemaker, Kili.’ 

‘Not fair!’ groaned Kili. ‘You are as well!’ 

Ithilrian chuckled. ‘I dare say my father was thinking of a… different kind of trouble.’ 

‘What kind?’ asked Fili.

‘Orcs, goblins, wargs…’ the elf shrugged carelessly. ‘My father is a gentle, kind man. Not a warrior; at least, not by choice. He has always detested violence. But someone needs to teach the orc filth that the Elder Folk are not to be taken lightly. When I’m not practicing my healing arts, I hunt them through the forests.’ 

‘Really?’ Kili’s eyes opened wide in excitement. ‘What happens?’ 

Ithilrian smiled despite herself. ‘They never stand a chance.’ She shook her head slowly. ‘There’s some good advice for you two youngsters: never try to outwit an elf in the woods. It will seldom go well.’

‘So… you deliberately track down an orc pack, and then go after them alone?’ Fili asked slowly. A grin of admiration spread across his face. ‘You know, I think your father was right. You are reckless!’ 

Ithilrian shrugged. ‘Reckless or not, I still do it. I owe the goblins of the Misty Mountains a debt of vengeance that is yet to be repaid.’ Her grey eyes grew hard as flint at the thought. For a moment a cold silence fell on the little group, and both Fili and Kili shivered in unison.

Ithilrian groaned. The old, badly healed wound was tugging at her again, clawing at her insides. The memory of grief was still refusing to fade. 

‘What happened?’ asked Fili, after several seconds. ‘You look sad, Miss Ithil.’ 

‘It’s okay,’ added Kili. ‘You can tell us. We’re not as daft as we seem.’ 

‘I know that,’ said Ithilrian. She smiled slowly as she looked down at the upturned faces of the two dwarves. ‘Don’t trouble yourselves. It is something that happened many, many years ago.’ 

‘You can still tell us,’ said Fili, while Kili nodded emphatically beside him. ‘If it makes you feel better.’ 

Ithilrian shrugged. ‘I do not speak of it. Yet perhaps I should, because if we run into any goblins that have the stink of the Misty Mountain caverns upon them, then you should know that I will not allow any of them to live.’ She sighed. ‘Simply put, then: I had a sister, once. Now, thanks to that filth, I do not.’ 

‘They killed your sister?’ asked Kili in a low voice. Ithilrian saw him dart a horrified glance towards his brother. 

Ithilrian hesitated. It was not strictly speaking true; her sister Celebrian had not _died_ at the hands of the orcs. But she had been captured, and tortured, until her body was broken and her mind overthrown. By the time Lord Elrond had mounted a rescue, it was too late. She was eventually healed in body; but her mind was never the same. After many long months of despair, the decision had been made to send her away from Middle Earth and its troubles, to seek the healing of her soul on the far shores of Valinor. 

‘I…’ Fili hesitated, glancing between Kili and Ithilrian. ‘I can’t imagine what that must have been like for you. I’m so sorry.’ 

Ithilrian sighed, noting the look of dismay in the eyes of each young dwarf. She decided not to correct them. It was as near the truth as she wanted to get, for now. Part of her – a small, secret, guilty part – almost wished Celebrian had died; had received a swift end to her agony. No one should have to linger so long, in so much pain. 

‘Thank you,’ she replied softly, forcing away the memories that threatened to engulf her. She put out her hands and took a shoulder of each young dwarf, squeezing gently. ‘You are both kind, and young. Let us not speak of such horrors. They sun is bright, and our hearts should be lifted by it.’ She smiled, pointing towards the small copse that lay ahead. ‘If we’re lucky, and if your uncle decides to test my hunting skills, we may find a good dinner up ahead.’ 

That was sufficient news to bring a grin back to the face of each young dwarf. In a flash, Kili was off, running up to the head of the column to speak with Thorin. Fili remained at her side, watching his younger brother fondly. 

‘He’s a good dwarf,’ he said quietly. ‘Just a bit… over-eager sometimes. Gets us into all kinds of trouble.’ He smiled ruefully, glancing up at the face of the elf beside him. 

‘I know,’ nodded Ithilrian. ‘I can see a little of my sister and I in the two of you. I was the youngest one: the wild one. Always getting into danger, or trouble with the elders. But my sister was always there to pull me out again. Much like you and Kili, I deem.’ 

‘Aye,’ grinned Fili. ‘I keep an eye on him. And I always will.’ 

They paused as Kili came trotting back, looking mightily pleased with himself. ‘I spoke to Uncle,’ he said breathlessly. ‘He says you’re welcome to hunt once we reach the woods. He also said that I could go with you!’ He beamed. ‘I have a bow too, you see – it might be good practice for me.’ 

Fili frowned. ‘What did uncle actually say? Really?’ 

Kili scowled. ‘He said… that if it got us a good dinner, he didn’t mind what she did,’ he admitted, glancing up at Ithilrian. ‘And then I asked him if I could go too, and he didn’t reply. Which is almost like a _yes,_ isn’t it?’ Kili added, looking beseechingly at his brother and Ithilrian. 

‘No,’ they both replied in unison. Fili glanced up at the elf, startled, before turning back to his brother and sighing. 

‘It’s all right Kili,’ said Ithilrian gently. ‘Personally, I would welcome the company. But only once I have the express permission of your uncle. You know full well how much he cares for you. If he thought I had put you in harm’s way, he would be furious.’ 

‘Hmpf.’ Kili frowned, his brow furrowed. ‘I suppose you’re right. I’ll ask him again when we get there. Maybe he’ll listen this time.’ 

~

By the time the small company approached the forested area, it was well past noon. They had travelled at a steady pace for most of the day, pausing only once for a brief lunch of hard bread and even harder cheese. Ithilrian spent most of her time walking at the back, behind the three small pony-drawn carts that seemed to carry most of the baggage. Fili and Kili had stuck with her for most of the day, having apparently decided to take her under their joint wing. It was almost exasperating, thought Ithilrian, to be so fussed over; but she was growing fonder of the two young princes by the minute, so she did nothing to prevent them. 

Through their chatter, she learned the names of the other members of the company. Aside from Thorin, Fili, Kili, Balin, and Dwalin, there were also Oin, (who she knew already) and his brother Gloin, who, like Balin and Dwalin, were distant cousins of the royal line. There were also Dori, Nori, and Ori, known collectively as the Brothers Ri; and finally there were Bifur, Bofur, and Bombur, known collectively as the Brothers Ur. Ithilrian shook her head distractedly. Dwarf names did not sit easily on her tongue, and she became very confused before Fili decided to take it upon himself to drag her along the caravan, introducing her officially to each and every dwarf, so that she might put names to faces properly.

Some greeted her with easy nods and smiles (particularly the brothers Ur, who seemed a cheerful, though odd, trio), but there was a tangible feeling of unease that Ithilrian could practically taste, running through the group as a whole. The only ones who appeared oblivious to it were Fili and Kili, who were in high spirits all morning. 

‘Look! The forest is dead ahead!’ cried Kili, who was walking near the front of the column. 

‘Yes thank you Kili,’ replied Balin, sounding exasperated. ‘We had in fact already noticed.’ 

‘Miss Ithil said she might hunt in there,’ said Fili, by way of explanation. ‘So that we might have some fresh meat for the supper tonight.’ 

It looked safe enough, thought Ithilrian, admiring the glint of light off the silvery birch leaves from afar. But she’d been travelling long enough to know that danger could lurk in even the most beautiful places. 

‘Should I go on ahead, and scout it out?’ she asked, coming to stand next to Balin. 

‘No,’ said Thorin, who was standing beside Balin, and glaring balefully at the woods. ‘No splitting up. We go in together. It should be safe enough, but stay alert.’ He shot a glance at Ithilrian. ‘If all is well, perhaps we can make camp. Then we can begin to think about supplies. But not till then. I do not trust those woods.’ 

‘Why not?’ asked Kili.

‘We are travelling upon the old roads of Arnor,’ replied Thorin gruffly. ‘Tales that come out of this land are seldom good, so be on your guard.’ 

‘Indeed,’ murmured Ithilrian. ‘It was barely one and a half thousand years ago that the Witch-King of Angmar held sway over the lands just east of here. It was an evil time. We would be wise to be wary.’

‘The Witch-King of Angmar?’ asked Kili, eyes wide. ‘Who was that?’ 

‘A tale for another time,’ replied Ithilrian. Her eyes narrowed as she scanned the woodlands ahead. No movement could yet be seen. ‘Perhaps I will tell you later, once we are a comfortable distance from his old realm,’ she added. ‘Foul things like that leave their mark on the land, no matter how long ago they lurked here.’ 

‘Agreed,’ muttered Balin. ‘So let’s just take this nice and slow.’ 

They entered the forest through an old path that was barely visible beneath the fresh growth of the forest. It was difficult at times to maneuver the entire dwarf group through the treeline, especially the three ponycarts. But eventually they were all moving steadily, if slowly, through the trees. Ithilrian slipped to the rear of the group. 

‘What are you doing?’ asked Fili, dropping back with her.

‘Hush,’ she cautioned him, unslinging her bow and holding it ready. ‘I am trying to listen.’

‘To what?’ 

‘Everything.’ She sighed. ‘If anyone had been planning to attack your party, this would be the perfect place to set up an ambush. It is enclosed, shadowy, with difficult terrain to negotiate; especially with the carts.’

Fili nodded, eyes wide. ‘Do you expect an ambush, then?’

Ithilrian shrugged, her keen eyes trained on the forest around them. ‘I did not survive this long in the wilds without some sense of self-preservation, Master Fili.’ 

Yet despite Ithilrian’s misgivings, the forest revealed no dark secret, and they went on for some time without mishap. Eventually, they came upon a small, open glade, surrounded by tall pines. A small brook babbled and chuckled through it, the fresh water glimmering invitingly after the long morning’s march. 

‘Wait,’ hissed Ithilrian, as the dwarves made a concerted move towards it. ‘Wait!’ 

There was a note of urgency to her voice that none of them had heard before. Thorin hesitated, raising his brows at her questioningly. ‘What?’ he grunted. 

Ithilrian tilted her head to one side, straining her ears. The sounds of the forest were muffled. There was no birdsong, she realized. All around the clearing, where there should have been the sounds of the living, breathing forest, was nothing but silence. 

‘Ambush,’ she whispered. ‘Something is lying in wait for us.’ 

Thorin shot her a glare. ‘You are sure?’ he muttered. 

‘Yes.’ She nodded emphatically. 

‘What is it?’ 

‘I know not for certain. But I think…’ she sniffed, and wrinkled her nose. ‘Orcs.’ 

‘You can smell them?’ muttered Thorin incredulously. He threw her a suspicious glance before inhaling deeply. ‘I cannot.’ 

Ithilrian nocked an arrow to her bow, holding it loose but ready. ‘I have keen senses, my lord Thorin. And the stench of a Misty Mountain orc is one I will never forget.’ 

‘What should we do now?’ whispered Fili. ‘With all the noise we were making before, they must know we’re here. What are they waiting for?’ 

His question was answered by a harsh cry. The forest peace was shattered as a band of orcs came crashing through the foliage ahead of them, bellowing war-cries and brandishing an assortment of ugly blades. The lead orc fell with Ithilrian’s arrow through his throat; but not before an answering cry had sounded behind the company. 

‘They’re coming!’ bellowed Thorin, sweeping his sword from its scabbard and holding it in readiness. ‘To the front and the rear! Form a circle! Stand your ground!’ He hissed through his teeth as Ithilrian’s bow sang again, and another orc went down with a grey-fletched arrow through the eye. But before she could take aim once more, the orcs fell upon them. 

It was a fierce, if brief, battle. The orcs drove at the dwarves, only to be repulsed by a selection of whirling blades and swinging mattocks. Dwarven battle cries filled the air. 

_'Baruk Khazâd!’_  
_'Du Bekar!’_  
_'Khazâd ai-mênu!’_

Ithilrian wove through the fighting, bow slung safely on her back, a razor-edged dagger in each hand. She struck with all the grace and deadly speed of her kin, weaving between groups of fighting orcs, plunging her knives into exposed throats, exploiting any weakness. 

It was not a desperate battle, she thought, glancing around swiftly. Despite the fact that the orc pack still outnumbered the company, they were breaking upon the dwarves like water on rock. She could not help but keep one watchful eye on Thorin, even as she spun and danced between orc blades, delivering her own deadly dagger thrusts as she went. He was wielding his sword masterfully, cutting down orcs with powerful sweeping strikes. He remained to the right side of his nephews, cutting down any orc stupid enough to venture near the young princes. 

They were holding their own, Ithilrian noticed; Fili was wielding a pair of twin blades, and Kili had gotten hold of a sword of his own. But then Ithilrian noticed a group of orcs making for Kili’s left flank, out of Thorin’s protective reach. _That will not do,_ she thought. 

She ran through the battle, positively hurling herself through the mess of battling dwarves and orc corpses, until she was close enough to launch herself towards at the group attacking Fili and Kili, a dagger in each hand. The nearest orc went down headless. Turning, she swiped left and right swiftly, cutting the throats of the next two orcs, before spinning with all the grace of a trained dancer to ram her left dagger squarely in the gut of the orc who was trying to flank her. She felt hot blood spill over her hand as she wrenched the dagger free, turning once again to position herself protectively before the two young princes, snarling a challenge in Sindarin to the remaining orcs. Out of the whole pack, only four remained alive. 

With a handful of guttural curses, the last orcs turned tail and fled. The dwarves cheered loudly in victory, bellowing insults and challenges to the backs of their retreating foes. Ignoring the shouting around her, Ithilrian unslung her bow once more. 

‘What are you doing?’ cried the dwarf she knew as Bofur. ‘They’re running!’

‘I know that,’ she replied, nocking an arrow and sighting swiftly down the shaft. The hindmost orc fell with an arrow in his back. 

‘So, they won’t be back. There’s no need to waste shafts on them!’ Bofur called back. 

‘Need?’ Ithilrian asked, pulling another arrow swiftly from her quiver, sighting, and shooting, all in one fluid movement. ‘Perhaps not. But I am sworn to kill the mountain filth, wherever I find them.’ Another swift draw of the bow, another careful sighting; and the third orc fell, his scream gurgling swiftly into silence. 

‘Lower your bow,’ said Thorin gruffly, striding over to glare at her. ‘That last one’s too far away by now. You’ll never hit him.’ 

‘Will I not?’ she said softly. She nocked her fourth arrow, sighting carefully. The orc was running swiftly. She narrowed her eyes, following his movement, pulling her bow back to its fullest curve as she tracked her quarry. With a gentle sigh she loosed the arrow, watching it fly in a high arc before plunging down into the neck of the final orc. He dropped without a sound. 

‘Wow!’ Kili was agog, bouncing up and down beside her like a puppy, seeming not to notice her bloodied hands or his bloodstained jerkin. ‘That was amazing! Can you teach me to shoot like that? Please, Miss Ithil?’ 

‘Hmm?’ Ithilrian tore her gaze away from the dead orc, avoiding Thorin’s glare as she looked down at the eager young dwarf. ‘Yes, Kili. I will teach you, if you wish.’ 

‘Brilliant!’ Kili’s grin was so wide it could have split his face in half. Before she knew it, the young dwarf prince had pulled Ithilrian into a bone-crushing hug, gripping her so tightly around the middle that she felt the breath leave her body in one big _whoosh_. ‘Thank you Miss Ithil!’ he called, his voice slightly muffled, his face buried somewhere in her midriff. 

‘Kili?’ she managed to gasp. 

‘Yes Miss Ithil?’ 

‘Please let me go. I can’t breathe,’ she wheezed. 

‘Oh! Sorry!’ Kili let go and stepped back. ‘Sorry! I didn’t mean to…’ 

‘Kili,’ interrupted Thorin. ‘Stop harassing the elf-maid. Everyone, get yourselves ready to move. We can’t stop here. We will keep travelling until nightfall.’ 

In the flurry of activity that followed, Ithilrian caught Thorin’s eye. She raised one eyebrow questioningly, and he gave her a small nod of approval before returning to cleaning his sword blade.

Ithilrian checked her daggers, and then went to retrieve her spent arrows from the orc corpses. She checked the points and shafts for damage before cleaning them carefully and replacing them in her quiver. She kept her head bent, and her eyes down, hoping that none of the dwarves would notice the smile that she could not keep from her face. 

~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Khuzdul translation notes:
> 
> Baruk Khazâd! = The axes of the dwarves!  
> Du Bekar! = To arms!  
> Khazâd ai-mênu!’ = The dwarves are upon you!’ 
> 
> Hope y'all like this little scene! I decided a good old-fashioned skirmish would do everybody some good… and give the characters a chance to show off their skills, of course! Besides, I can see Ithilrian getting massively protective over Fili and Kili. To her, they're still basically children, I guess.


	12. A Firelight Conversation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the orc fight, Thorin's company takes a little well-earned rest.

It was dark when Thorin finally called a halt. 

‘Here,’ he said, his low voice thick with exhaustion. ‘We will camp here tonight. Oin, Gloin, get a fire going. Bombur, Bifur, see to the rations. Fili, Kili, deal with the ponies.’ 

Everyone complied grumblingly. He had pushed them hard, through the small forest and over the plains beyond. It was a barren, unforgiving landscape they had been trekking over, the grasses sparse and yellowing, dotted with outcrops of grey stone. It was beside one of these outcrops that Thorin had decided to rest, where they were partially shielded from the chill autumnal breezes. 

Once everything was settled and supper had been sorted, he could not help but notice that since the orc-slaying there was a different atmosphere within their small camp. Before, the presence of the she-elf had been a disruptive element, with many of the dwarves shooting silent but mistrustful looks in her direction. But now, as they all settled down to the meal prepared by Bombur, everything seemed a lot more relaxed. Indeed, Bofur, Dori, and Ori were conversing eagerly with Ithilrian, as if the fact that she was an elf was of absolutely no consequence. 

Perhaps it was the battle that did it, he thought. He’d often found that fighting alongside someone often gave one an insight into his or her character; and he found that he’d enjoyed fighting beside the elf-maid. She had certainly proved herself a better warrior than he’d expected. Not that he’d admit it, of course, but he’d been impressed by the skillful way she’d wielded her twin daggers, moving through the battle with a lithe and deadly grace. And he had not failed to notice when she rose to the defense of Fili and Kili, with unexpected ferocity. 

That thought in particular triggered a strange, warm feeling to rise into his chest, coiling itself around his ribcage. It was relief, he decided, that his nephews were all right; and that they seemed to have found another protector. Yes, definitely relief. 

Eventually, supper was over. The conversations had died down, and many of the company were yawning behind their hands. Ithilrian had remained quiet for some time, gazing into the fire. Bedrolls were being taken down from the carts, and arranged near the fire for warmth. 

‘Get some sleep, all of you,’ ordered Thorin. ‘I’ll take first watch.’ He spread out his own bedroll for later before returning to the fireside, listening to the grumbling and huffing of twelve dwarves bedding down. He glanced over at Ithilrian. The elf had not moved. 

‘Ithilrian?’ he said quietly, not wishing to startle her. 

‘My lord Thorin?’ she replied, her voice low and soft against the crackle of the campfire. 

‘It would be best if you took some rest, while you are able,’ he said. He fidgeted with his gauntlets as she turned to look at him. Why did her eyes unsettle him so, he wondered. Her ice-grey gaze seemed to bore into him, piercing his soul; yet the feeling was benign, possibly even friendly. 

‘I will rest later,’ she replied. ‘I require less sleep than mortals. And, with the darkness drawing in, I may be of some use to you. I have keen night vision.’ She tilted her head to one side, smiling at him slightly. ‘I can take the first watch, if you are feeling fatigued.’ 

‘I am not fatigued,’ he said, more gruffly than he intended. 

She smiled gently. ‘Then perhaps we may take the watch together.’ 

They sat for some time in silence, listening to the gentle breathing of twelve tired dwarves morph slowly into a cacophony of grunts and snores. Ithilrian’s eyes were constantly on the move, roving across the sparse flatlands in search of approaching danger. Thorin remained alert; but found that his gaze would constantly settle upon her, the way his eye would be drawn to a lone star on a clouded night. She sat very still, barely moving a muscle, save for the slow rise and fall of her breathing. He watched her gaze drop back towards the sleeping company, and noticed the barest hint of a smile in her eyes when she looked upon the sleeping forms of Fili and Kili. 

‘You care for them.’ He spoke without preamble, in a low voice so as not to wake the company. Ithilrian’s gaze darted towards him questioningly. He nodded towards his nephews. 

‘Yes,’ came the quiet reply. Her face remained serene, but a small smile ghosted over her features. ‘It is strange, but find I have become very fond of them.’ 

Thorin nodded. ‘And they of you,’ he replied. ‘I do not know why,’ he added, with a frown. Why the elf, he wondered. What power did she have over them? And why was it that his heart kept giving bewildering little jolts whenever he caught her gaze? 

‘I do not know either,’ said Ithilrian. ‘It is… bewildering, _hîr vuin_. They are so… full of life, I suppose. Exuberant. _Gell-pathred_ , we might say in Sindarin: filled with joy.’ She sighed softly. ‘They serve to remind me that not all the life and laughter is gone from this world.’ 

Thorin nodded thoughtfully. His eyes narrowed, and he looked at her with a searching gaze. There was something there, again; something hidden, that he could not quite catch. She was smiling and her voice was gentle, but it was sorrowful too. 

‘I saw you fight today,’ he said. ‘I also saw you leap to the defense of my nephews when they were threatened.’ He frowned, hesitating. Her eyes had turned towards him again, and suddenly he did not know what to say. He was pleased, certainly – but the old familiar anger still burned low within him, rage against the elves, against everything that had fallen apart when the dragon took Erebor. It used to be an anger that felt as natural as breathing: something that comforted him, and kept him fighting during the darker times. But now it was in conflict with his thoughts, the ones that whispered that perhaps, just perhaps, this elf was different; that she could be trusted.

‘I am… grateful,’ he managed to add, feeling thoroughly unnerved.

Ithilrian inclined her head towards him gracefully. ‘I am at your service, my lord Thorin.’ The now-familiar faint smile glimmered in her eyes once more. ‘ _Hîr viun_ , I must ask: how fares your shoulder?’ 

Thorin scowled at the reminder. ‘It fares well,’ he replied gruffly. In truth, the wound was hurting him. He was sure it had opened up again during the battle. But right now, the last thing he wanted to do was admit that. ‘Let it be, elf-maid. It is healing.’ 

‘Don’t be concerned,’ replied Ithilrian. ‘I have no wish to check upon its progress immediately. But I will make you another pain draft, if you wish.’ 

Thorin pulled a face. ‘That evil-tasting concoction?’ 

‘Indeed.’ A flicker of mirth passed across her face, gone so swiftly that Thorin wasn’t sure if he’d imagined it or not. ‘My _ammë_ often said that the best medicine tastes the foulest.’ 

‘Your _ammë?’_ he asked. 

‘My mother,’ she corrected herself, reaching over to unbuckle her pack. 

‘I see.’ Thorin groaned. He did not want to admit that the shoulder was painful. But he remembered the relief her medicines had brought him before, and nodded decisively. ‘Very well. I will accept another pain draft.’ 

‘Good,’ she replied. He watched as, with deft hands, she pulled the same vials from her pack as before, mixing carefully measured amounts with a little water, and swirling it gently to mix. This time, when she handed it to him, he did not hesitate. He upended the cup and swallowed it all down as swiftly as he could. Even so, the bitter taste lingered on his tongue. 

‘Gahh,’ he muttered, wincing as the last of it disappeared. ‘If your mother’s words are anything to go by, that stuff must be potent medicine indeed.’ He looked up, startled, as Ithilrian laughed. It was a soft and velvety sound, which seemed to shimmer in the night air like the memory of molten silver. He had never heard her laugh like that before. He found himself wishing he could hear her do so again. 

‘Bravely done, _hîr vuin_.’ She was smiling, reaching for the empty cup. He leaned forwards, offering it. As she took it, her fingers closed over his. His heart gave a terrific thump, and his pulse began jumping wildly. 

‘My lord?’ she said softly as he jerked backwards. A flicker of something passed across her face, so swiftly that Thorin decided he must have imagined it. ‘Is everything well?’ 

‘Yes,’ he snapped, glaring fiercely to cover up his confusion. ‘It is the lingering taste of that disgusting concoction. That is all.’ 

‘I see.’ Ithilrian replaced the cup within her pack, glancing back at him before pulling out a small, flattened flask and hesitating. ‘If it bothers you… I have something that might take the taste away.’ 

‘What is it?’ grunted Thorin, eyeing the small flask suspiciously. He glanced at the many different vials, bottles, and sealed packages that lay in the open section of Ithilrian’s pack. Surely she had enough medicines in there to heal an entire platoon of dwarves, he thought grumpily. 

‘Taste,’ she said simply, offering the flask. ‘It is sweet.’ 

Thorin took the flask hesitantly. _Don’t be stupid_ , his inner thought supplied. _If she were going to poison you, she could have done so a thousand times over before now._ He flipped open the lid, and smiled in surprise at the pleasant floral scent. 

‘Only a small sip,’ warned Ithilrian. ‘It is potent.’ 

He nodded, raising the flask to his lips and allowing a small amount to trickle onto his tongue. He swallowed, flushed with surprise and pleasure. It was indeed sweet, and wholesome to taste; and even as he handed it back he felt renewed strength and vigour surging through him. It also managed to entirely erase any lingering taste of the bitter medicine. 

‘What is that?’ he asked, eyeing the flask with renewed interest. 

‘It is called _miruvor_ , the cordial of Imladris,’ she replied. ‘It is very precious, and should only be taken in small mouthfuls.’ 

Thorin frowned. ‘If it is so precious, why offer it to me?’ 

Ithilrian opened her mouth as if to answer, hesitated, and then closed it again. Something flickered in the depths of her eyes before she spoke again. 

‘It is… valuable, perhaps, because it works swiftly; and because I cannot find it anywhere other than the Hidden Valley,’ she said slowly. ‘Yet there are more important things than my supply of _miruvor_.’ 

‘Such as?’ Thorin asked, confused.

‘Your health,’ replied Ithilrian softly. ‘The cordial is brewed in such a way as to give strength to both body and spirit. It will help you stay awake, these long hours; and it will help your shoulder to heal faster.’ She smiled. ‘Not all my medicines taste so foul, you see.’ 

‘I do,’ nodded Thorin. ‘Thank you,’ he added gruffly. The sweet taste of the _miruvor_ lingered within him still. He watched as Ithilrian replaced the small flask within her pack, smiling to himself as she tried unsuccessfully to conceal a large, cat-like yawn. ‘You should rest,’ he said, as gently as he could. 

‘Perhaps you’re right.’ Ithilrian smiled at him ruefully. ‘I have become so reliant upon myself these past decades; always sleeping with one eye open, often concealed up a tree somewhere. I am… unused to sleeping under the guard of others.’ 

Thorin raised a single, disapproving eyebrow. ‘You doubt your safety here? Or do you not trust me to keep watch alone?’ He felt his pulse quiver once again as Ithilrian turned her grey gaze upon him. _Grey as frosted river ice beneath a silver moon,_ he remembered. He shivered. 

‘No, _hîr vuin,_ ’ she said softly. ‘I trust you.’ 

‘Then sleep,’ he replied. 

‘I shall.’ She dipped her head towards him again, graceful acknowledgement and thanks. ‘If you need me, call my name. I will hear you.’

‘Sleep,’ he said again, gruffly. ‘How many times must I tell you?’ 

‘Perhaps once more, _veleth nîn_ ,’ murmured Ithilrian, standing and stretching with lithe, feline grace. 

Thorin chuckled at her audacity. ‘I will not ask what you just called me. Go to sleep, elf-maid.’ He lowered his voice to a gentle rumble. 

Ithilrian made a slight bow, quirking an eyebrow good-humoredly. ‘At your command, my lord Oakenshield. _Namárië._ ’ 

She turned, and stepped carefully to the place where her bedroll had been laid out, settling down swiftly, tugging the hood of her cloak up and over her pale hair. Smiling, Thorin turned away, and went back to scanning the darkened landscape, still wondering why the strange elf had such a bewildering effect on him; and why, no matter how hard he tried, he could not bring himself to dislike her. 

~

Ithilrian lay on her bedroll, eyes closed. She felt sleep creeping upon her, but she could not settle properly until the frantic pounding of her heart had ceased. 

_‘If it is so precious, why offer it to me?’_ Thorin had said. 

_Because I love you._ The words trembled on the tip of her tongue, longing to be said. _I would give everything to you; all that I am, and all that I may be. I would give you the world, the sun, the very stars themselves, if you asked it of me. Because I love you._ But she bit the words back. Nothing good could ever come from that confession, she thought miserably. He had only just managed to speak with her in a civil tone; yet she was still startled by his gruffness, the way that he would suddenly bark at her without warning, just when she thought they were getting along well. It was a good thing he hadn’t asked her what she’d called him, when she’d stood up and stretched, and thought he might not hear her. 

_Veleth nîn._ My love. She should not speak those words aloud again; she had no right to them, after all; and it was far too dangerous. What if somebody had heard, and understood? She shivered. No. It was stupid even to think them. But it was hard, when he looked straight at her with those midnight blue eyes, when he spoke softly with that rich, velvet voice of his that echoed within her, and made her shiver to her soul. _Veleth nîn_ , she thought again, in the privacy of her own mind, and smiled wanly as the terrible, lonely ache within her pulsed again, gently, just as if to remind her that yes, the soul-pain was still there, and no, it wouldn’t be leaving any time soon. 

She sighed. It was still better, she thought; better than it would’ve been, had she not been taken into the company. Elvish hearts were strange things: strong enough to endure a thousand years of sorrows, yet fragile enough to shatter at a single word or deed, leaving the heartbroken elf to fade slowly into death and despair. Ithilrian placed a hand over her chest, feeling the strong pulse that yet beat there. _Not yet,_ she thought. _Give me more time._ The stars were burning brightly overhead, and Ithilrian settled herself down more comfortably in her bedroll. There was time yet, she thought. She closed her eyes again, smiling as sleep drew its dark cloak over her, knowing that she would dream of eyes as blue as the depths of the great sea, and a voice like gentle thunder in the distant mountains. 

~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew! Another chapter done! I think I'm quite pleased with how this one turned out, although the elf/dwarf bits are proving harder to write than I anticipated.  
> Elvish translation notes:
> 
> hîr vuin = my lord  
> gell-pathred = filled with joy (lit. joy-filled)  
> ammë = mother  
> veleth nîn = my love  
> namárië = farewell
> 
> Hope y'all like this one! Let me know! All comments/kudos gratefully received! ^_^


	13. Age Concerns and The Lore of Hugs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As time passes, interesting discussions are had as to some of the small cultural differences between elves and dwarves.

Over the weeks that followed, Thorin was proud to notice his company settling back into an efficient travelling routine. They continued through Arnor without further incident, passing easily over the undulating North Downs, heading slowly but surely west. 

It was strange, thought Thorin, how, after that short battle, his small group had adapted to having an elf-maid in their midst. Somehow, bonds of friendship were being forged on both sides. Ithilrian seemed always happy to speak with any of the dwarves, no matter how weighty or trivial the subject: he had once listened in as she discussed the ancient histories of Arda with their resident scribe, Ori; before switching to a debate about the merits of elven and dwarven embroidery techniques with Dori. Even Thorin himself found that he was less disposed to speak to her roughly, relying on her preternatural eyesight and hearing to scout for enemies, as well as locating the best places to set up camp. Many times he was forced to conceal his smiles, or even a chuckle; for despite the fact that the elf appeared to be assimilating into the dwarven company reasonably well, cultural misunderstandings were inevitable. 

One such time was when Fili and Kili had been walking just behind him, near the head of the group, with the elf-maid between them, and the conversation had taken an unexpected turn… 

~

‘May I speak with you about something?’ Ithilrian had asked Fili and Kili as they walked. She’d been thinking hard, trying to distract herself, to keep her eyes from latching onto Thorin’s back too obviously, as she watched him stride regally just a few feet ahead of her. 

‘Of course!’ replied the Kili. ‘What is it?’

‘It is…’ she hesitated. ‘It is about something that happened some days ago. After I agreed to train you in archery, you grabbed hold of me without warning, and squeezed all the air from my lungs.’ 

‘Yeah, sorry about that,’ said Kili sheepishly. ‘I didn’t mean to hug you so hard. Didn’t realize elves were fragile.’ 

‘Ah,’ nodded Ithilrian thoughtfully. ‘So that’s what it was.’ 

‘What what was?’ asked Kili, confused. 

‘A hug.’ Ithilrian nodded. ‘I have never experienced one before. Are they all like that?’ 

‘Wha…?’ Kili’s jaw hung open. ‘You’ve never had a hug before?’ 

Ithilrian shook her head. ‘Not before your enthusiastic attempt, no.’ 

‘That’s… impossible!’ said Kili, looking confused. 

‘Then how do elves show affection?’ asked Fili. He sounded as if he were trying – and failing – not to laugh. 

‘Um… the usual ways?’ replied Ithilrian, bewildered. 

‘And what are those?’ 

‘It depends on… on the nature of the affection being shown,’ replied Ithilrian. ‘For example, if I were greeting an old friend, we might clasp one another’s shoulder.’ 

‘Really? What else?’ asked Kili, agog. Fili snorted. 

‘Well… my _ammë_ always used to kiss the top of my head, before we went to sleep,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘That is one way of expressing familial affection.’ 

‘Oh?’ Kili said eagerly. ‘So how do… you know… how do couples show affection? You know, courting and stuff?’ 

Ithilrian felt warmth flood into her cheeks, as Fili gave up even trying to contain his laughter. ‘That is not an appropriate topic to discuss with you children,’ she said haughtily; and she was definitely _not_ thinking about all the ways she’d like to demonstrate her affection towards Thorin. He was still only a few paces in front of them, and Ithilrian was having a hard time concentrating on anything other than the sweep of his cloak and the play of sunlight on his rich, dark mane of hair. 

‘What?’ cried Kili, outraged, as Fili chuckled beside him. ‘We’re not children!’ 

‘Are you not?’ replied Ithilrian, arching one eyebrow cynically. ‘How old are you?’ 

‘I’m sixty-seven,’ replied Kili proudly. ‘And Fili is seventy-two!’ 

Ithilrian snorted loudly, trying to contain her laughter. It was a most un-elvish gesture, startling and amusing both dwarves. 

‘What?’ cried Kili impatiently. ‘What is it?’ 

‘You _are_ children,’ laughed Ithilrian. ‘According to my people, anyway. You would not be considered to have even reached… how do your people say it? You wouldn’t come of age until you had at least one hundred years apiece.’ 

‘What?’ laughed Fili. ‘We’d be mature dwarves by then!’ 

‘But you’d be young elves,’ chuckled Ithilrian. ‘That is why I call you both children. At your current age, you would not even be allowed to roam the woods unescorted; yet here you are, battling orcs and slaying goblins!’

Kili pouted. ‘Well, now I feel foolish,’ he muttered. 

‘You shouldn’t,’ said Ithilrian. ‘I didn’t mean to make you feel like a child. I’m afraid I forget myself sometimes; I am rather older than you think, and all of you, even the eldest, sometimes seem as children to me.’ She reached out and grasped his shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze. ‘I am sorry if my words offended, _mellon nîn.’_

Kili glanced up, a smile creeping over his face. ‘Did you just… give me an elf hug?’ 

Ithilrian smiled. ‘Yes, I suppose I did.’ 

Kili threw back his head and laughed. ‘Then I guess we’d better teach you some proper dwarf hugs,’ he said happily. He seemed to have forgotten his previous annoyance. ‘Now, it’s a bit awkward, because you’re really tall and I’m normal height.’

A smile played around Ithilrian’s lips. ‘What if I knelt down? Would that make it easier?’ 

‘Yes!’ laughed Fili. ‘That way you’d be more on our level.’ He glanced around. ‘Better save that that for when we stop to rest though. I don’t think anyone would thank us for slowing the entire caravan, just for some hugging practice.’ 

‘I see,’ said Ithilrian. She eyed the two dwarf princes carefully. ‘Until then, perhaps you can tell me about the lore of hugs. In what context are they generally used? Does the firmness of grasp bear any relation to the level of affection? Is it a gender-specific gesture? Are there certain types of hug that are associated with different family lines? How do…?’ 

She broke off, frowning as Fili and Kili both dissolved into laughter. ‘I don’t know what you find so funny,’ she huffed. ‘I am simply trying to learn.’ From the corner of her eye she saw Thorin’s shoulders twitch. If she didn’t know better, she’d have suspected he was doing his best not to laugh as well. 

‘Don’t worry,’ snorted Fili, wiping tears of mirth from his eyes. ‘We’ll show you later. It’s not really… something we learn like that. You just… _know,_ I guess, when a hug is appropriate. It’s something you feel inside.’ 

‘I see.’ Ithilrian smiled fondly at the pair of princes. ‘Well, if either of you feel it’s time to give me another hug, please let me know, before... _ooof!’_

She did not even have time to brace herself before she was knocked off her feet by to two dwarf princes, who both launched themselves at her simultaneously. A startled – and very undignified – yelp left her throat as she fell backwards into the long grass, the two dwarf princes clinging to her like limpets. Their faces pressing into her tunic muffled their laughter, but only slightly. 

‘For the love of Varda…’ she began, before breaking down into laughter of her own, lying flat on her back, staring up at the clouded blue sky, feeling the wet grass beneath her head. ‘What do I do now?’ she added to the young dwarves, who were still clinging to her and giggling.

‘You hug back, or course,’ called Bofur, amidst the laughter that was coming from somewhere above her. ‘It’s very rude, y’know, not to return a hug. Especially one as enthusiastic as that.’ 

She hesitated, before gingerly wrapping her arms around Fili and Kili’s shoulders. ‘Like this?’ 

‘Aye,’ laughed Fili, pulling his head back and grinning impishly at her. ‘Not bad, for a beginner. But don’t worry. We’ll be sure to do it plenty of times, so you can get some practice.’ He let go, pulling a still-giggling Kili off Ithilrian, before offering a hand to help her back to her feet. She took it gratefully. 

‘Well… perhaps next time you can warn me first,’ she grumbled ruefully, rubbing her the back of her head. ‘Preferably in writing,’ she added, spinning on her heel to rejoin the party. 

As she and the two dwarf princes took up their walking places once more, Ithilrian allowed herself another quick glance at Thorin. She was surprised to see his shoulders were shaking, as though he was trying, but failing, to conceal the laughter that bubbled up within him. Ithilrian grinned happily, feeling fresh joy surge through her. If that’s what it takes to make the stubborn dwarf laugh, she thought, then perhaps I should fall flat on my back more often. 

Not that she was thinking about any of the other ways she’d like to fall flat on her back with Thorin, of course. Not within bowshot of Fili and Kili, at least… 

~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this chapter certainly ran away with me this time… slightly silly I guess, but I couldn't help it - the idea of elves just not being able to deal with enthusiastic dwarf hugs just made me laugh! Also, Ithilrian really isn't dealing well with her feelings for Thorin, bless her… 
> 
> Elvish translation notes:
> 
> ammë = mother (Quenya)  
> mellon nîn = my friend (Sindarin)


	14. Of Roasted Boar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a campfire conversation turns towards the elves of Mirkwood, with surprising results; and a slightly more private chat between Ithilrian and Thorin reveals some painful truths.

One peaceful night, after they had skirted Fornost and were safely on the western side of the North Downs, the company sat comfortably around a blazing fire, tucking into a delicious supper of roasted wild boar. Ithilrian had been hunting regularly across the plains; and all thirteen capacious dwarven bellies rumbled their approval of her choice of game. However, this time it had been Kili who took the kill shot; for Ithilrian had been as good as her word, and had been teaching him some of her archery skills. 

She had also spared some time for Fili, who’d later asked her, more bashfully than his brother, if she could possibly show him how to wield his twin swords in the same way that she used her daggers. So it came to be that, often when they made camp, much of the elf’s time before supper was engaged with teaching, and occasionally sparring with the two princes. Neither of them ever came close to besting her; but it was good fun for the young dwarves, and Ithilrian found she delighted in both teaching and demonstrating her skills.

Kili had been elated for that entire evening, puffed up by the praise heaped upon him by the others; especially by Bombur, who had been eager to cook something other than stew for a change. The whole company was seated around the smoldering fire; all except for Thorin and Oin, who were standing watch some distance away. 

‘It was so fast, you know – one minute, we were there, and I was sighting down my bow, and then before I knew what was happening, Miss Ithil had given me the signal, and _whoosh!_ The arrow struck straight and true, and down it went without so much as a squeal!’ Kili waved his arms delightedly, demonstrating the pull of the bow, the release of the arrow, before returning to munching on a strip of juicy boar meat. 

‘Aye, t’was a good shot indeed,’ nodded Gloin. ‘Even though a bow is hardly what I’d call a proper dwarvish weapon.’ 

Kili scowled. ‘My hunting bow is Erebor-made. It’s just as dwarvish as your axe!’ he retorted. 

Gloin snorted. ‘Dwarf make it may be, but bows are a suspiciously _elvish_ weapon, to my mind. All those cursed Mirkwood sprites seem to use them…’ he hesitated, suddenly remembering who was sitting to his left. ‘No offence intended, Miss Ithilrian,’ he added stiffly. ‘You’re not their close kin, as I understand it; so I hope you’ll not take my words pers’nally.’ 

Ithilrian shook her head. ‘No offence taken, Master Gloin. I understand your dislike of Mirkwood’s folk.’

‘Aye,’ chimed in Dwalin. ‘Treacherous, backstabbing, pointy-eared bastards. There’s a few words I wouldn’t mind throwin’ at them.’ 

‘Indeed,’ added Balin. ‘And that cold-eyed waif of a so-called King is the worst of the lot.’ 

‘Traitor!’ 

‘Backstabber!’ 

‘Leaf-eater!’ 

The tirade of insults grew, until Ithilrian, with a mischievous gleam in her eye, delivered a slew of elvish words that made the dwarves pause mid-rant. 

‘What’s that mean?’ asked Ori, his eyes wide. 

‘I assumed we were trading our thoughts on what the Woodland King’s next title should be?’ Ithilrian said. Her tone was innocent, but her eyes were glittering mischievously. ‘That was one of my father’s old favourites.’ 

‘Really? What does it mean?’ asked Dori.

‘It means, he is like the pompous end of a horse’s… backside,’ said Ithilrian, with as much mock-dignity as she could muster. Kili exploded into laughter, while Fili looked at her with amazement. 

‘Elves insult one another like that?’ His shoulders were shaking with laughter and disbelief. 

‘Of course,’ replied Ithilrian. ‘Why should we not? But it sounds so elegant in Quenya, our most ancient tongue; so most mortal folk don’t notice when we’re doing it.’

‘It sounds as if your daddy doesn’t much care for Thranduil either,’ chucked Bofur. ‘What’d he do, steal his dinner?’ he added, smacking his Nori’s hand as the younger dwarf made a spirited attempt to swipe the last piece of roast boar from his plate.

‘Nothing so rash,’ replied Ithilrian, a sly smile creeping onto her face. ‘But let me see… ah, yes. He did try to court my mother, long ago.’ 

‘He _what?’_ Bofur spluttered. Kili’s chuckles turned into undignified snorts of laughter. 

‘Yes,’ Ithilrian continued, maintaining her light tone, only the barest twitches of a smile belying the giggles she felt rising within her. ‘And she already married, too. It was a terrible scandal. The Imladris elves spoke of little else for decades; but then, Elrond’s folk are notorious gossips.’ 

Bofur’s eyes widened as if they were about to pop out of his head. ‘Scandal!’ he laughed. ‘Oh by Mahal himself! Never thought I’d hear the like!’ 

‘It was never that well known to outsiders, perhaps,’ mused Ithilrian. ‘But there is a reason he’s no longer welcome in Lothlórien. My mother is still polite to him, of course, but _ada_ gets into a terrible strop whenever he’s around. Calls him all sorts of names.’ 

‘Oh?’ Fili and Kili leaned forwards simultaneously, twin grins spreading over their faces. ‘Like what?’

‘Names that would scorch your ears, if you understood them,’ replied Ithilrian mock-sternly. ‘You are far too young for that kind of talk. Besides, I’m sure your uncle already thinks I’m a bad influence on you two. I’ll not teach you to curse in Sindarin, and give him any further ammunition.’ 

Too late she noticed the footsteps behind her, and the sudden stiffening on the faces of Fili and Kili. _Oh no,_ she thought, a hot flush of embarrassment rising unbidden into her cheeks. _I didn’t even hear him coming. I must be getting old._ It took a great amount of effort for Ithilrian to turn in her seat and face the dwarf King. 

‘Hail Thorin,’ she said, clenching her fist around the log she sat on in an attempt to keep her voice steady. ‘You walk as lightly as a cat these days, my lord.’ 

‘Hmmm.’ Thorin growled, stepping into the firelight. Ithrilrian caught her breath at the sheer beauty of him, his skin gleaming like molten gold in the light of the dancing flames, his twin sapphire eyes glittering with reflected fire. _By the Valar, she thought, I could write poetry about those eyes; something that would rival the Lay of Leithian itself._ She itched to ask Ori if she could borrow his quill and parchment. 

‘I’ll ask you not to presume to know my thoughts,’ growled Thorin in a low voice, stepping almost daintily over a fallen log and closer to the fire. Ithilrian almost jumped into the air with shock when he chose to sit beside her, settling on her left with a small grunt. Her heart leapt into her throat and began hamming frantically. She could feel the closeness of him, hear the rasp of his leather and mail as it brushed against the side of her cloak. He was close, close enough to touch, close enough for her to lean in a little and feel the firm press of flesh beneath his…

‘Miss Ithil?’ Kili leaned forwards, all concern. ‘Are you all right? You’ve gone pale!’ 

‘She has, you know,’ added Fili, leaning forwards too. ‘Paler, anyway. Uncle, please don’t be grumpy. We were insulting Thranduil together. Do you know what she just called him?’ 

‘I heard,’ rumbled Thorin. Ithilrian shivered. _Oh sweet Lady Varda give me strength,_ she thought frantically. He was so close she could feel the vibrations of his glorious midnight voice passing right through her. 

‘I also heard,’ he added, turning to face Ithilrian, ‘that you believe I see you as a… _bad influence_ on my nephews.’ 

She swallowed hard, fighting for control, only allowing a flicker of emotion to pass across her face. ‘Do you not?’ 

‘No,’ replied Thorin simply. His eyes, still fierce, softened a little, and his bearded cheeks moved in what, Ithilrian realized belatedly, was a genuine smile. ‘No, I do not. Kili’s archery has come on apace since you began teaching him; as has Fili’s swordsmanship.’ He inclined his head towards her, a short and graceful bow that made Ithilrian’s eyes widen in shock. ‘I am grateful.’ 

‘I… you are too kind, _melda tár,_ ’ stuttered Ithilrian, slipping into Quenya in her surprise. ‘They are both good, if willful, students,’ she added. 

‘Hey!’ cried Kili. ‘We’re both right here, y’know. We can _hear_ you.’ 

‘Indeed,’ sighed Ithilrian, trying to let off some of the tension that had wound her body as tight as a coiled spring. ‘In that case, your hearing has greatly improved as well.’

~

It was late. The fire had burned low, and most of the company was sleeping. Most, that is, except Ithilrian, whose turn it was to keep watch; and Thorin, who could not sleep. He tossed and turned uncomfortably for some minutes, before standing up with a groan and walking back to the fire, where he sat down beside Ithilrian without a single word.

‘Who are you, elf-maid?’ he muttered eventually, under his breath. 

Ithilrian smiled, turning her grey eyes towards him. ‘You know my name by now, I think.’ 

Thorin shook his head, half-smiling, half-irritable. ‘That is not what I meant.’ 

‘What, then?’ she asked. 

‘If I heard what you were saying earlier aright, then… you said that Thranduil of Mirkwood once tried to court your mother?’ 

‘Indeed,’ replied Ithilrian. ‘Another example of the Elvenking’s poor judgement, I fear.’ 

Thorin narrowed his eyes. ‘Poor it may have been indeed, yet he is still a King. And kings do not often wish to court common folk; at least,’ he added hastily, ‘at least, not with the intent of marriage, anyhow.’ He shifted uncomfortably. ‘That’s how it works in traditional dwarven culture. Rank marries rank; the higher one rises, the fewer choices one seems to have.’ 

‘I suppose our ways are not so different,’ Ithilrian replied. ‘It is not generally spoken of, however. There are no rules, other than to be true to the longing of our hearts. But like often calls to like, and powerful elves find themselves drawn to those with a similar gift. Else, the relationship would not be a bond between equals.’ 

‘I see,’ nodded Thorin. ‘From this, am I to deduce that your mother was a woman of rank, or power?’ He was watching her closely from beneath hooded eyes. ‘I know that you have told me your name, and that you claim to be a simple wandering healer only. Yet from what I have seen, I believe there must be more to you than that.’ 

There was a long, awkward pause. Ithilrian seemed to have gone utterly still, except for a small muscle that twitched in her jaw. Thorin wondered what she was thinking.

‘You have keen sight, Thorin son of Thrain,’ said Ithilrian eventually. ‘My mother indeed is a being of some power.’ She smiled slightly. ‘A good thing too,’ she added. ‘For it was with her magics, some of which I inherited, that I was able to recall your fevered soul from the wraith world. Without it, no medicine in Arda, no matter how potent, would have saved you.’ 

Thorin drew a slow, deep breath. ‘And for that I am grateful.’ He stared at her over the fire, noticing that for once she seemed to be avoiding his gaze. ‘Yet my question still goes unanswered. Who are you?’ 

Ithilrian hesitated, staring into the fire. There was another long moment of silence; but not a comfortable silence, such as they had shared on previous watch nights. It was fraught with tension, like thin glass ready to shatter. The elf-maid’s face seemed impassive, yet Thorin could see a flicker of something like panic in her grey eyes. 

‘I… beg you to ask me some other time,’ she said eventually. ‘For the full tale is a long and complicated one, and to fully understand you may wish to hear it all.’ She swallowed hard. He watched her throat bob, her milky skin reflecting the glimmering light of the dying fire. She looked… afraid, he realized. 

‘Why is that?’ asked Thorin, narrowing his eyes. He knew his voice had come out gruffly, thick with suspicion. He didn’t understand why she was afraid; or why she was not answering him. ‘I would rather you told me now, elf-maid. I do not like to have secrets kept from me within my own company.’ 

‘I…’ Ithilrian paused, apparently at a loss. Something like fear scrawled its way across her face. 

‘What ails you?’ he asked in a low voice. ‘I have trusted you these past weeks: with the safety of myself, my nephews, my entire company. Now you will not even trust me enough to tell me who you truly are?’ Bitterness rose unexpectedly into his words, and a strangling tendril of anger wrapped itself around his heart like the coils of a serpent.

‘No,’ said Ithilrian quietly. Her jaw clenched again, and Thorin frowned as she raised her head and met his gaze directly, grey eyes gazing into blue. ‘I trust you, _hîr vuin,_ ’ she added. ‘With my life. With my very soul, I would trust you.’ 

He shivered. Her words had been spoken softly, yet they lanced through him like shards of ice. 

‘Ask me whatever you will,’ she continued. ‘I swear to hold nothing back.’ 

‘Very well.’ Thorin glanced around, checking that none of his companions had stirred. This seemed like a private conversation; something to be held away from prying ears. ‘Then tell me, elf-maid,’ he said eventually. ‘Who are you? Do not make me ask again.’ 

‘I shall not.’ Ithilrian bowed her head. ‘My name you already know. My title too: _Tinnulenath,_ the Twilight Star. I am the Silver Lady, the second daughter of the Lady Galadriel and Lord Celeborn, joint rulers, and founders, of the ancient kingdom of Lothlórien.’ 

Thorin felt his eyes widen in surprise. ‘Rulers? As in… king and queen?’ 

‘Indeed,’ said Ithilrian quietly. ‘Although they would take no titles beyond Lord and Lady, you know. Yet they have ruled over the Golden Wood since the kingdom’s founding in the Second Age of this world.’ 

Thorin nodded. ‘That means…’ he said slowly, ‘that in our culture, we would have to call you Princess, or at least some form of title befitting an heir.’ 

Ithilrian laughed; but it was a small, sorrowful sound. ‘I may be heir to Lothlórien in name, but both my parents are immortal. I shall never rule the Galadhrim; this I know for certain in my heart.’ She sighed. ‘Nor do I wish to. It has been many years since anyone has even recognized me; since anyone has called me by any title other than my given name.’ 

‘I see.’ Thorin sighed. He knew how it felt, to want to leave your birthright behind. When he was a young dwarf, he’d dreamed sometimes of running away, becoming known simply as himself, instead of Thorin son of Thrain son of Thror, heir of Erebor. Yet he had not left; he had never shirked his duty. Perhaps elves were different, he thought. After all, waiting around to inherit a kingdom from immortal parents did not sound like an enjoyable occupation. 

‘Why did you never mention this before?’ he asked. 

‘I… don’t know,’ she admitted. ‘It did not seem appropriate. To begin with, I was your healer, and you were my patient; that was all either of us needed to know. Later on…’ She hesitated again, and Thorin was surprised to notice a hint of blush climbing into her cheeks. ‘You made it abundantly clear that you neither liked, nor trusted me, my lord Thorin. I did not deem it prudent to march around your camp, declaiming my heritage to the four winds.’ 

‘And after that?’ asked Thorin. 

She shrugged awkwardly. ‘After I’d begun to know you all, there never seemed to be an appropriate moment.’ She sighed. ‘After all, ‘tis hardly the sort of thing one slips into a casual conversation.’ 

‘No,’ agreed Thorin. ‘It is not.’ 

She offered him a shy smile, small and fleeting. ‘Besides, I was lonely. I desired company, friendship; the things that you dwarves seemed to have for each other in abundance. I had only just managed to gain some small trust from you, my king; the same for the others too. I feared they would… become distant. Treat me differently. That they would not trust me.’ 

Thorin shook his head and sighed exasperatedly. ‘I wish you’d told us,’ he said gruffly. ‘I would have liked to know.’

‘Would you?’ she asked, grey eyes serious. ‘You are their king, Thorin. You must understand what it is to have people treat you differently because of rank.’ 

‘I am not their king,’ muttered Thorin in a low, strained voice laced with bitterness. ‘We are an exiled people, with no kingdom to speak of, save the one we lost.’

‘Yet you know in your heart that is not the case,’ Ithilrian whispered, her words as soft as the night breeze. ‘I look at you, Thorin, and I can see the power and majesty of your ancestors within you. It is in every line of your face; in every step you take; in the proud set of your jaw. You could no sooner stop being a King, than you could stop being a dwarf.’ She smiled, and her eyes were full of pity. ‘Smaug may have taken much from you,’ she said gently. ‘But not everything, Thorin. Not everything.’ 

Thorin could not speak. His tongue seemed to cleave to the roof of his mouth, rendering him mute. She was looking into his heart, straight through the perpetual fog of doubt and fear that lurked there. Only the truth, he realized; only the truth would do. 

‘I…’ he stuttered. ‘I do not believe I am a fit King for my people,’ he gritted out eventually. His voice was hoarse from the effort of saying those words, of speaking aloud his greatest fear. ‘They need someone courageous, a true leader, one who can look after them…’ 

‘They do indeed,’ replied Ithilrian. ‘And I can see all of those qualities in the dwarf that sits beside me.’ She laid one slender hand upon his arm, with a tentative gentleness that made something warm and almost painful surge within him. ‘You have great courage, _mellon nîn,_ and honour; and a noble heart. I can see it within you, Thorin. I _know_ this to be true.’ She hesitated, holding his gaze. ‘Your soul shines more brightly to me than any other in this world,’ she added softly. ‘Is that not strange?’ 

‘I do not know,’ replied Thorin slowly, painfully. ‘I do not know why – why you of all people should have such faith in me, when I have so little in myself.’ 

Ithilrian smiled. ‘My _ammë_ told me once that often joy can be found, unlooked for.’ She dipped her head slightly, removing her hand from his arm self-consciously. ‘Perhaps it was more than chance that brought Fili and Kili to me, that wet night in Maedor.’ 

‘Perhaps,’ said Thorin. ‘Chance or not, I have been most fortunate.’

‘As have I,’ replied Ithilrian. ‘Never have I met such people as you and your companions. I find myself becoming very fond of you all. Recklessly so, some might say.’ She hesitated, and a hint of doubt crept into her voice. ‘Are you going to send me away?’ 

‘What?’ Thorin started, looking at her as if she had gone mad. ‘Why would I?’

Ithilrian shrugged uncomfortably. ‘I… thought that you would do so, after you realized that I had deceived you into thinking I was just some common elf.’ 

Thorin shook his head and laughed softly. ‘A fine King you’d think me then.’ His laughter died away as he caught sight of the fear still lurking in Ithilrian’s eyes. ‘Do not concern yourself,’ he added. ‘You will remain with the company, if you wish.’ 

Ithilrian let out a long, slow sigh. It seemed to Thorin that she had been holding her breath, waiting on his word; as though some terrible consequence lay upon his decision. ‘Thank you,’ she whispered. ‘However… may I ask you not to inform the others? I am so unused to my titles, and I would hate for my friends to treat me differently because of them.’ 

Thorin snorted. ‘You tell me I am a King, in everything but name; yet you would keep your own legacy concealed?’ He arched an eyebrow at Ithilrian. ‘That does not seem quite fair, Ithilrian of the Twilight Star, Silver Lady of Lórien.’

Ithilrian’s mouth quirked into a half-smile at his sudden use of her titles. ‘I see.’ She sighed, and shrugged. ‘Do what you will, my King. I am at your mercy.’ She smiled. 

‘Hmmm,’ mused Thorin. ‘This is what I propose, then. You cease calling me your King; and I shall not reveal to the others that we have been harboring runaway elven royalty in our midst. Although,’ he added, 'at some point I would appreciate hearing exactly what it was that brought an elvish princess so far from home.' 

‘Very well,’ replied Ithilrian. She was smiling, but there was something else in her eyes; something Thorin still could not put a name to. ‘Yet I would have you know this,’ she added quietly. ‘Even though I may not call you my King aloud, know that I still think of you as such.’

‘You think of me as… your King?’ said Thorin slowly, disbelievingly. The idea that an elf of all creatures would consider a dwarf their king, was ridiculous. That an elven princess should do so, was preposterous. 

‘Yes.’ Ithilrian nodded, once, decisively. ‘You are more worthy to be called King than many others I have known that claim the title. With or without your kingdom.’ 

‘I…’ Thorin cast around for words, and found none that seemed to fit. ‘Thank you,’ he grunted eventually. ‘Thank you.’ 

~

After Thorin had returned to his bedroll, Ithilrian took the remaining hour of her watch alone. She could not sit still; she paced around the circle of firelight in silent, watchful vigil. So close, she thought; so close she had come to being sent away. 

She shivered. It was a cold night, with breezes blowing up from the south that ruffled the sparse plain grasses. Her silver hair glimmered faintly in the starlight, and she pulled up her hood to conceal it. 

Why had she not told him? Perhaps it was because she was afraid. Her time as one of the daughters of Lothlórien seemed so long, as if it had been a different elf-maid who had sung and danced through the woods; a different elf-maid with eyes like twin moons and hair like starlight, who had been doted upon, and loved, by her older sister. 

She felt hot tears prickling her eyes, and blinked them away fiercely. She could not afford to reminisce, she reminded herself briskly. To do so was only to invite further pain into her heart; the memories of that old, badly-healed wound. She had never quite recovered from her sister’s departure to Valinor. 

She had loved her sister dearly; so dearly, that when Celebrian’s ship had begun to sail, Ithilrian had suffered from a terrible, rending internal agony; the pain that only came with losing a part of one’s soul. She had barely survived it the first time around; now, she knew, she was in danger of facing it a second time. 

After all, she had not lied to Thorin Oakenshield. _‘I trust you, hîr vuin: with my life. With my very soul, I would trust you,’_ she had said. It was a bittersweet truth. She had ignored Galadriel’s warning about holding back a little of her heart: she had given it, wholly and freely, to Thorin. That he did not love her in return, was something she could cope with: so long as she could still have sight of him, hear his voice, look into his eyes. But to be banished from him forever? That she did not know if she could bear. 

_Let him not send me away,_ she prayed silently, her eyes upturned to the stars that glimmered faintly, far above. _Sweet Lady Varda, be merciful. I know he is mortal; that no matter what happens, he will die and pass forever beyond my reach. Mine is not the fate of Lúthien. All I beg of you is more time. Please; just give me more time._

~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, that chapter took longer than I expected! Still, it's done now; and now that certain truths have been exchanged, I think Ithilrian and Thorin might begin getting a little closer to one another… yay! ^_^
> 
>  
> 
> Elvish Translation notes:  
> Ada = father   
> melda tár = beloved King   
> hîr vuin = my lord  
> mellon nîn = my friend  
> ammë = mother


	15. Lake Evendim

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The company reaches the end of the flat plains of Arnor, and decides to set up camp on the shores of Lake Evendim; which earns a couple of the dwarves a brief lesson in elvish history.

For several days the company continued to travel west across the plains, before reaching the shores of a great lake backed by rolling green hills. 

‘Wow!’ cried Kili, running up to the lakeshore, where gentle breezes cast rippling waves across the lake’s gleaming surface. ‘I’ve never seen a pond this big before. What’s it called?’ 

Thorin halted the company, striding up to stand beside Kili, keeping one hand on the hilt of his sword. ‘Lake Evendim,’ he said. ‘And beyond that, the Hills of Evendium.’ He glanced around, seeming ill at ease despite the beauty of the landscape surrounding him. ‘We will make camp over yonder, on the northern shore,’ he added. ‘There we will be sheltered by the shadow of the hills.’ 

As the pony-drawn carts creaked into life once more, and the company continued along the lakeshore, Thorin remained standing for several seconds longer. Despite the natural beauty of the place, something made him feel unsettled. His shoulders twitched, as though he were being watched. But there was no living soul in sight. 

The company travelled on unhindered, traversing the Evendim until they reached the lake’s northernmost point just before dusk.

‘We should make camp here, and go no further today,’ decided Thorin. ‘I want full daylight before we head through those hills.’ He grimaced at the thought, helping Balin to unharness the ponycarts, still maintaining a watchful eye on his surroundings. The three ponies seemed unconcerned, flicking their tails happily as they fell to cropping the lush green grasses. Everybody else seemed relaxed as well, he noticed. Fili and Kili were laughing and skimming stones, making outrageous bets on whose stone could get the most skips; Bombur, Bofur, and Nori were rummaging through the supply wagon, getting ready to make supper; Dori was fussing over Ori, who was trying to find his sketchbook; and Bifur and Dwalin were collecting fallen wood for the fire, which Oin and Gloin were bickering over how best to start (again). Everyone was chattering happily, and everyone was busy – except Ithilrian. 

The elf-maid was standing on the shore of the lake, away from Fili and Kili’s boisterous shouts. She appeared to be simply staring out over the vast, silvery expanse of water. _What in Mahal’s name is she doing now,_ Thorin thought grumpily. Normally she partook in the setting up of their camp, with eager hands and a shy smile, no matter how tired she might be. This time, she seemed to have deliberately isolated herself from the bustle. 

Curiosity tugged at him. ‘What do you think she’s doing?’ he muttered to Balin, nodding towards the elf while they were putting away the pony’s tack and bridles. 

Balin glanced sideways at his old friend, a wry twinkle in his eye. ‘Why don’t you go over there, and ask her yourself?’

Thorin grunted. ‘It looks to me as though she wouldn’t welcome any idle chatter at this moment.’ 

‘Perhaps not,’ replied Balin. ‘But I believe she’d talk to you.’ 

‘What?’ Thorin turned to his old friend, who was grinning impishly at him. ‘Why?’ 

Balin chuckled. ‘Because I believe our elf-maid has a soft spot for you, laddie.’ 

‘Durin’s beard,’ muttered Thorin, taken aback. ‘Surely you cannot be serious.’ 

‘You think so?’ the white-bearded dwarf shrugged. ‘I’m not the only one who’s noticed. The way she speaks to you, looks at you. It’s different to the way she talks to the rest of us.’ He sighed, noting the frown that had creased Thorin’s forehead. ‘It was just a thought, laddie. She may be more willing to tell you something that she would withhold from other folk.’ 

Thorin nodded, careful not to mention that she had in fact already done just that. ‘Very well, Balin. If you think it best, I shall go and speak with her.’ 

‘Good.’ Balin smiled, watching fondly as his King strode determinedly away, towards the lake. It was only a hunch; but Balin had become a keen observer over the years, and had witnessed the tentative beginnings of many courtships. Of course, elves were a strange folk, fey and willful, and you couldn’t trust most of them as far as you could kick them… 

He tugged his beard thoughtfully, patting the nose of an interested pony. If someone had mentioned the idea of an elf and dwarf courting two months ago, he’d have laughed. It was a ridiculous idea, preposterous; especially considering that the dwarf in question was their King. But now? He chuckled to himself, shaking his head slowly. Thorin had been so young when the responsibilities of leadership had been forced upon him. Together they’d been through so much: the attack of Smaug, the fall of Erebor, not to mention the Battle of Azanulbizar.

He sighed ruefully, eyeing the two figures at the lake’s edge with a smile. If there were a chance for his King to find some happiness, however slight, then Balin would support him without question. No matter how strange the results might be. 

~

Thorin came to a halt beside Ithilrian. Gentle wavelets lapped at the pebbled shoreline, as a stiff autumn breeze ruffled the silver surface. Ithilrian was standing still as stone, gazing out across the water, her grey eyes distant and unfocussed. She seemed to be holding something in her hand; a pendant or necklace of sorts. A small, sad smile was on her face. 

Thorin glanced behind him, making sure none of the dwarves were within hearing range. ‘What are you thinking, Silver Lady of Lórien?’ he asked softly. 

The merest breath of a laugh escaped the elf-maid. ‘At the moment, I am thinking that I enjoy hearing those words from your lips, _hîr vuin.’_

Thorin chuckled. ‘Don’t worry. I made sure no-one else could hear.’ He tilted his head slightly to look up at her. She still had the same faraway look in her eyes. ‘Where are your thoughts, Ithilrian?’ he asked. ‘For clearly, they are not here with us.’ 

Ithilrian turned, and smiled warmly down at him. ‘My apologies. I became so wrapped up in memories that I quite forgot my manners.’ 

‘Memories?’ said Thorin. ‘You know this place? You’ve been here before?’ 

‘Indeed,’ replied Ithilrian quietly. ‘This, my lord, is where I was born.’ 

‘Wha…?’ Thorin felt a jolt of surprise lance through him. ‘You used to live here?’ He glanced around, as if expecting crumbling elven ruins to loom suddenly out of the dusk. He could see no fallen stonework, or felled trees, or any evidence of settlement at all. 

‘It was a long time ago,’ said Ithilrian, as though she was reading his thoughts. ‘Elves leave a light footprint on the land, and when we decamped we left few traces of our presence. This place is wild once more.’ She drew in a deep, slow breath. ‘I did not realize how much I have missed it,’ she added under her breath. ‘The rustle of the wind in the grass, the cool shadow of the hills, and the bright, sharp scent of water. They bring back some long-forgotten memories.’ 

‘Did you grow up here?’ asked Thorin. ‘I thought you said before that you were raised in Lórien.’ 

Ithilrian shrugged. ‘I was. We left these lands when I was a tiny elfling. Most of my youth was spent in Lothlórien, wandering the mallorn groves in Caras Galadhon. But I have some small, fond memories of this place as well.’ She paused, tilting her head and smiling at the sound of approaching booted feet. ‘It seems we have company,’ she added. 

‘What are you talking about?’ Kili flopped down at the water’s edge, dabbling his fingers in the cold, clear water. 

‘Ignore him,’ laughed Fili. ‘He’s just in a mood because I won the stone-skimming contest.’ 

Kili scowled. ‘You did not win, and it was not a contest,’ he grumbled. 

‘It’s lovely here, isn’t it?’ Ori had joined the brothers, journal clutched tightly to his chest. ‘I’d love to make some notes and sketches before we leave. Everything’s so… pretty.’ 

Ithilrian smiled warmly at the eager young dwarf. ‘I am glad you can appreciate its beauty,’ she said. 

Ori nodded. ‘I can. But there’s something funny about this place as well, don’t you think? I feel like… like I’m being watched. But not in a bad way. Like whatever’s doing the watching is friendly, and wants us to be all right.’ He shrugged, and blushed. ‘Sounds stupid, doesn’t it?’ 

‘No,’ rumbled Thorin. ‘It doesn’t. I feel watched, too. It is strange. I do not like it, or trust it.’ He turned as Ithilrain laughed her silvery laugh. 

‘You may not like it; but you need not fear it.’ She smiled. ‘What you can feel, Ori, is the lingering presence of my people. This land has not entirely forgotten the presence of Illuvitar’s children; many years ago, my mother and father, and many of the elder folk, dwelt on the shore of this lake.’ 

‘Really?’ said Ori, his eyes wide. ‘There were elves, here?’ 

‘Hmpf,’ snorted Kili. ‘I don’t see any houses, or buildings of any sort.’ 

‘I am not surprised,’ replied Ithilrian. ‘They lived here many years ago, before the Third Age of this world began.’ 

‘That’s… a long time ago,’ said Fili slowly, brow creased in calculation. ‘At least… two, three thousand years? No wonder there isn’t anything left.’ 

‘Indeed,’ Ithilrian nodded. ‘It was many years ago, when this place used to be known as Nenuial, which in the common tongue means The Lake of Twilight. I remember it was because the lake was particularly beautiful to look upon at that time.’ She smiled. ‘That hour is close upon us now,’ she added.

‘You remember…’ Fili’s eyes widened with shock when he realized what she had said. ‘Durin’s beard! How old are you, Miss Ithil?’ 

Ithilrian smiled. ‘Old enough to lie about my age to you children,’ she replied. 

Thorin frowned. He had not realized she might be so old. Elves lived for hundreds of years, he knew; thousands, potentially. But what she’d said had rattled him. He had not reckoned on her being two, possibly three thousand years old, if Fili was right. It did not matter, of course. It shouldn’t matter. But for some reason, the knowledge discomfited him. 

He was about to turn away, when the sound of Ithilrian’s voice pulled him back.

‘Look,’ she said softly. ‘Twilight is falling over Nenuial. Is it not beautiful?’ 

He turned. It was indeed beautiful. The shadows of dusk had fallen, and the sky was deepening from palest blue into a rich, dark indigo. The lake seemed to shimmer with life, threads of silver glimmering from the gentle rills and ripples that spanned its surface, pursued by a faint wind no stronger than a breath. 

‘It’s lovely,’ whispered Ori. ‘Oh, for my paintbox!’ 

‘Look up,’ said Ithilrian gently. ‘See, what shines above the lake?’ 

All four dwarves looked up. There, amongst the deepest folds of darkening sky, a single point of light winked and glittered. 

‘The first star of twilight,’ murmured Ithilrian. ‘It was on this shore, and beneath that star, that I was given my name.’ She pushed back the hood of her cloak, and allowed her long silver hair to spill forth. It glimmered in the deepening dusk, shining with the same faint, pale radiance as the star above. 

‘Ithilrian Tinnulenath,’ said Thorin slowly, testing the unfamiliar syllables on his tongue. _‘Tinnulenath._ Twilight Star.’ 

‘Yes,’ replied the elf-maid softly. ‘When I was born I was named Ithilrian, from the Sindarin word _Ithil_ meaning _moon,_ because I was so pale. Yet it was only later, when I stood beside this lake, beneath this star, that I was given the name _Tinnulenath_ as well, for it was said by many that the light of that star had bound itself within my hair.’ She paused, seeming to come suddenly out of a reverie. ‘But that is enough ancient history for one day,’ she added. ‘Come, let us return to the camp, lest I spend all night wallowing in memory.’ 

‘Hmmm?’ Thorin hummed, pulling himself back from his thoughts with difficulty. ‘Yes. Let’s go back. We should help Bombur with dinner.’ 

The five of them turned away from the lake, trudging back to where the dwarves had set up camp in the lee of the closest hill. Savoury smells were already wafting from the cooking pot balanced over the crackling fire. Ori kept glancing back at the faintly glimmering star and the shimmering lake, until more and more stars began to appear and he lost track of where the original one had been. 

Thorin did not look back. He felt shaken by the elf-maid’s words, in a way that he could not easily describe. He had felt as if he’d been drawn into the elf’s memories, almost as if he’d been there to see her as a child upon that cold lakeshore. He could feel something aching within his chest; an emotion he had yet to name, as powerful as grief, but light as laughter. It was something he had never experienced before: not until a certain elf-maid with starlight hair had wandered into his life. 

He shook his head. He would deal with it later. Right now, there was food to be eaten, and plans for the morning to be considered. But he made a mental note to speak to Ithilrian during the night watch. How old was she truly, he wondered. He noticed the way she had evaded Fili’s question, smiling and shrugging it off with practiced ease. She would not evade him, he decided. She had sworn several nights ago to answer whatever he asked of her, to hold nothing back. He would hold her to her word. 

~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, so I just wanted to share something with you lovely people! The whole lake business? Totally wasn't in my plan! I was just checking my Middle Earth map to see where my lovelies would need to camp, noticed the lake, and thought 'hey, let's check this out!' It wasn't until I hit up Tolkien Gateway (which is a fab website btw!) that I realised that Lake Evendim was a place that Galadriel and Celeborn had hung out for a time, before founding Lothlórien. It was also bang on the vague time that I'd noted down as Ithilrian's imagined birthday. Talk about serendipity! 
> 
> Anyway, that was just me getting over-excited. Hope you guys like the new chapter. I must admit, this has been my favourite so far, probably because it was so unexpected. 
> 
> <3


	16. Passing Through the Hills

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the company passes through the Hills of Evendium, and a little fireside heart-to-heart occurs…

The next day, they broke camp early. Dawn’s first light was cresting over the top of the nearest hill, pale and golden in a cloud-streaked sky, when Thorin unceremoniously roused his slumbering company.

The wagons were packed, the ponies re-harnessed, and packs were shouldered as in the growing light the company set off to cross the Hills of Evendium. It was relatively slow going. From a distance, the hills looked smooth and undulating, like great green waves; up close they were steeper, and larger, than the dwarves had imagined.  


‘Come on,’ Thorin exhorted them. ‘It will take us at least three days to cross these hills. Let’s hope that our presence will go unnoticed.’ 

‘We didn’t come this way before,’ complained Fili, hoisting his pack higher on his shoulders. ‘Why do we have to clamber over these blasted hills in the first place?’

‘It is the fastest route back to Ered Luin,’ replied Balin tiredly. ‘To skirt around these hills, we’d need to travel miles off course, both north and south. It would take far longer; and danger would still linger.’ 

‘Why?’ asked Fili. ‘What danger are we in?’ 

‘The northern way would take us back onto the plains of lost Arnor, closer to the ancient witch realm of Angmar,’ replied Thorin gruffly. ‘We already crossed the flatlands unscathed. I’ll not push our luck.’ He turned to glance at Ithilrian, who was striding silently behind them. ‘What think you, elf-maid? Should we have braved Angmar once more?’ 

She shook her head. ‘The land bears an evil name,’ she replied. ‘I believe you have chosen the wisest course. However, I did not know you passed through it once already.’ 

‘Aye,’ nodded Balin. ‘On our way from Ered Luin, we were able to cut a fairly straight path, fording the River Lune, across the plains, bypassing these dratted hills entirely. Of course, there was only seven of us then, and no ponies or carts; so the going was a little faster.’ 

‘Why was that?’ asked Ithilrian, curiosity glimmering in her eyes. ‘How did seven become thirteen?’ 

‘You mean… you still don’t know what we were doing out here?’ asked Fili, bewildered. ‘Why not? You should’ve said!’ 

Ithilrian shrugged. ‘I thought it would be rude to question your business in the lowlands. After all, you are dwarves, and I am an elf. I had no right to pry.’

Thorin glanced up at her incredulously. ‘You have… a peculiar sense of honour,’ he muttered beneath his breath. 

‘I heard that,’ said Ithilrian, flashing him a look. 

‘Naturally,’ he sighed. ‘Very well, since you have asked, I shall tell you. We travelled from Ered Luin to seek out some of our exiled kin. Since the fall of Erebor, many of my people have been driven into the cities of Men. They took what work they could to survive: as blacksmiths, pot-menders, coal-miners… whatever low jobs the humans deigned to offer us. Over the past few years I have spent much effort to unite our people once more. We have been building a home, of sorts, for them in Ered Luin. I undertook this journey because I had word of Erebor dwarves living amongst the farms and villages of Men, around Rhudar and the Trollshaws. I came to offer them the chance to return to their people.’ 

‘I see,’ nodded Ithilrian. ‘A noble quest.’ 

‘Hardly,’ snorted Thorin. ‘Our populations are low. We need to build our numbers if we are ever to have a hope of…’ he cut himself off with a scowl. 

‘That was where we picked up the Brothers Ri and the Brothers Ur,’ added Fili, taking up the tale as Thorin settled into a brooding silence. ‘They were working as tinkers, toymakers, weavers… doing anything asked of them, really. When we arrived, and told them of the new mountain settlement, they were happy to come back with us. They’re still loyal, you see. The others, however…’ he trailed off with a shrug. 

‘Others?’ asked Ithilrian. ‘There were more dwarves, who chose not to return to the Line of Durin?’ 

‘Indeed,’ nodded Balin. ‘Some few had become acclimatized to living amongst Men. One was even engaged to a blacksmith’s daughter! A human blacksmith!’ He snorted into his beard. ‘She was a right bonny lass, and I wish them all the best, of course. But they did not heed the call of their King.’ 

‘So you return to the mountains?’ said Ithilrian. ‘For good?’ 

Balin shrugged. ‘Perhaps. We have a decent enough settlement in Ered Luin. Some of our folk have founded a colony in the Blue Mountains too. But it will take time, and hard work, to get anything like a normal life back for our people.’ He glanced around at the green hills that still swelled on either side of them. ‘That is why we are taking a different route back. It will be quicker to cut right through these hills, rather than attempt to skirt them. But Thorin is right; we should travel quickly, and quietly.’

‘Why? What’s all the hurry?’ asked Bofur. ‘This place seems nice enough, and we’ve had no sign of enemies. Is it unfriendly?’ he cast a wary look at the grass beneath his boots, as if it might suddenly sprout wraiths or goblin kin. 

‘It is not.’ Ithilrian replied with a smile. ‘I can still feel the memories of my people here. The Emyn Uial should not be hostile to us. It takes a long time for the land to forget the elves.’ 

‘Oh,’ said Bofur, smiling happily. ‘That’s good.’ 

‘Be that as it may,’ growled Thorin. ‘Among these hills lurk bandits, and other unsavoury groups. It would be a good place to prey upon the weak. We should be wary.’ 

~

But despite Thorin’s dark mood, the company travelled in light spirits. The warmth of the rising sun was very welcome, despite the chill wind. Ithilrian hummed snatches of old elvish songs as she walked, merry tunes whose words she did not sing; but whose melodies inspired a lightness and swiftness of step in everyone. She often glanced around, smiling as one fond memory after another surfaced. 

Thorin continued to stride at the head of the column, hand often on his sword haft, glowering at the rolling hills as if they had personally offended him. He wove a zig-zag path through the Emyn Uial, only scaling what hills they had to for the sake of the ponies, cutting around most of them through narrow dips and gullies. 

They made good time. Thorin had estimated that it would take them three days, but it was on the eve of the second when he realized that the hills no longer towered all around them, and in a gap between the two nearest, he could see flat plains once more. Night was already falling, and he could hear the weary groans of the footsore company behind him; but he was pleased. They had made it. From their current position, it would only be a short journey of a few days before they reached the outskirts of Ered Luin.

‘We’re not going any further tonight, are we?’ Fili asked. His voice was tired, and tinged with a hint of pleading. ‘Uncle, we’re all exhausted! And it’s dark!’

Murmurs of agreement came from behind Fili. ‘Aye, it’s black as a cat without the moon to guide us,’ muttered Bofur. ‘I don’t even like to think what I might’ve stepped in back there.’ 

‘Very well,’ intoned Thorin. In truth he was as tired as the rest of them; but he’d be damned if he was going to show it. ‘We’ll rest here for the night.’ 

Relieved sighs came from all around. The dwarves were too tired to set up a full camp in the darkness: once the ponies had been seen to, and a watchfire built, most of them simply pulled out their bedroll and lay down amid a cacophony of groans. By general consensus it was decided that Ithilrian should take the first watch, as she was the only one who didn’t seem even remotely exhausted. 

It wasn’t long before snores began to emanate from the sprawl of dwarves all around. Ithilrian smiled to herself, gazing out over the flatlands. Her keen elvish eyes could pick up the glimmer of starlight on a distant river, and the jagged rise of mountains, even in the dark. _That must be Ered Luin,_ she thought. _We’re so close._

She was pulled from her thoughts by the presence of Thorin. The dwarf seemed to be in the habit of spending at least a part, if not all, of the night watches with her. It was an unexpected development; but not one Ithilrian was going to complain about.

‘Ithilrian,’ he intoned, sitting down beside her. ‘May I join you?’ 

‘I am always glad of your company,’ she replied. ‘But shouldn’t you be resting?’ 

Thorin shrugged. ‘It always takes me a while to settle at nights.’ He shot her a keen sideways glance. ‘Besides, I would speak with you. I have a question.’ 

Ithilrian raised an eyebrow. ‘For me?’ 

‘Yes.’ Thorin nodded. ‘I seem to recall you telling me that you would answer anything I asked you, yes?’ He paused to gauge her reaction. Her smooth elvish face remained mostly impassive as always, but he’d become adept at reading her slight facial expressions by now. She seemed hesitant, but after a short pause she nodded decisively. 

‘Yes, my lord. I did.’ She dipped her head slightly, respectfully. ‘I just did not expect…’

‘Didn’t expect what?’ asked Thorin gruffly. ‘That I would remember?’ 

‘No,’ she replied. ‘I am just curious. What further questions would a dwarf ask of the elves?’ 

Thorin snorted. ‘I am not asking _the elves._ I’m asking you.’

Ithilrian smiled. ‘I am still an elf, Thorin.’ 

‘Yes. But you are… different. I ask you not as an elf, but a friend.’ He chose his words carefully, speaking them slowly so as to watch her reaction. He felt unsure of himself, jittery in a way that had nothing to do with his previous caution in the hills.

‘I… am honoured that you would call me such a thing,’ said Ithilrian softly. She too seemed to be speaking with great care, Thorin noticed: as if she was choosing her words very deliberately. ‘I find that I too have come to… care for you. A great deal,’ she added. And there it was again; that slight flash deep within her eyes, a thing that Thorin could not quite recognize or understand, he only knew that it made a bright, warm _something_ uncoil in the pit of his belly – 

‘Ask your questions, son of Durin,’ she said gently. ‘Ask anything you wish.’ 

‘Very well.’ Thorin fought to recover himself, steeling himself to ask what had plagued him all day. ‘Some nights ago I asked you who you were.’ 

‘So you did,’ she replied. She glanced at him anxiously. ‘Did I answer to your satisfaction?’ 

‘You did.’ He said. ‘But there is one more thing I would know.’ 

Ithilrian inclined her head gracefully. ‘If it is within my power to tell you, I shall.’ 

Thorin nodded slowly. ‘I have been thinking on what you said at Lake Evendim. About how your mother and father lived there once; and about the time of your birth.’ He frowned. ‘You told us it was long ago, during the second age of this world. Ithilrian, that was well over three thousand years ago.’ He hesitated, forcing himself to meet her grey gaze. ‘Silver Lady, just how old _are_ you?’ he asked softly. 

She smiled. _‘Mellon nîn,_ it has been over five thousand years since I took my first steps as a daughter of Middle Earth.’ 

‘I see,’ replied Thorin slowly. He drew in a deep, steadying breath. He had expected a large figure, somewhere within the thousands; but he had not expected quite so much. He struggled to maintain his composure. ‘Is that commonplace, with elves?’ he asked eventually. ‘I mean... personally, I would deem that… very old. Do the rest of your folk?’ 

Ithilrian shook her head. ‘It is not common, my lord. There are few of us left now who are so aged. The weight of years lies heavily upon us, and many cannot bear the burden; and so they leave. I believe my _ammë_ is the eldest of those who remain. She has over seven thousand years to her name, and is revered as one of the wisest, and most powerful, of our kin. She came to Arda with her brothers many years ago, crossing the Helcaraxë in the far north, before settling in Doriath for a time. She has seen many things, both wonderful and terrible.’ Ithilrian smiled. ‘As have I,’ she added softly. 

Thorin shook his head in bafflement. ‘I would ask you to speak of some of them,’ he said quietly, ‘yet I fear those tales would take many days to tell.’ 

‘Indeed,’ replied Ithilrian with a chuckle. ‘Especially if I were to tell such tales in the traditional elvish manner, which involves a vast quantity of epic poetry.’ Thorin groaned, and Ithilrian smiled sympathetically. ‘Fear not,’ she added. ‘I am no bard; and while I may sing to myself sometimes, I have no tongue for verse.’ Her voice softened, and her eyes grew distant, as if she was staring into the distant past. ‘Yet there is much we have endured,’ she muttered to herself. ‘For elvish hearts are strong yet brittle things. I remember well the bright spear of Gil-Galad, high King and warrior of our folk; and the shining strength of Celebrimbor, whose power and skill at metalwork was his greatest pride; and our undoing.’ 

‘You were there?’ Thorin said softly. ‘During the rise of the Dark Power that dwelt for so long in Mordor?’ He shook his head, half-disbelieving. ‘This is lore I learned as a young dwarfling. Never did I think to be speaking with someone who remembers it.’ 

Ithilrian smiled sadly. ‘This is why I so seldom tell anybody my age,’ she explained. ‘I have found that mortal folk tend to baulk at the idea of speaking with someone who might have known their great-great-grandfathers.’ She sighed. ‘But yes, my lord, I was there. I recall the ripple of terror and fury that ran through the elder folk when Sauron revealed himself, and Celebrimbor knew we’d been betrayed. I was so young at the time; witnessing such fury within my people terrified me. But I fought with them. I accompanied my mother everywhere, including Imladris when it was founded, alongside my sister Celebrían.’ 

Ithilrian smiled fondly at the memory. ‘I was there when she first met Lord Elrond. To see the stars blossoming in her eyes, to watch her fall in love within a mere few seconds was… heady.’ She shook her head, and bitterness crept into her voice. ‘I took her place with our forces during the Battle of the Last Alliance. We were fighting for the safety and freedom of all Middle Earth; but in my heart all I could think of was my sister. I was desperate to keep her safe, and happy, and free from the terror that was leeching from Mordor.’ She shivered. 

‘I didn’t know you had a sister,’ said Thorin quietly. ‘Is she… much like you?’

‘Like me?’ Ithilrian smiled. ‘The answer to that must be both yes and no, my lord. Celebrían was my dearest friend in all of Middle Earth. When she passed, a great light went out of my life. I was desolate.’ 

Thorin bowed his head. ‘My sympathies,’ he said softly. ‘Forgive me, but… how long ago did she die?’ 

‘Die?’ replied Ithilrian. ‘No my lord, she did not die. She passed through the Grey Havens and across the sea to Valinor a long time ago. I have not seen her in four hundred years.’ 

‘She yet lives?’ said Thorin, surprised. ‘But the depth of your grief…’ he hesitated, looking into her eyes once more, feeling himself pulled towards the deep wells of sorrow that lay within. ‘You loved your sister greatly, I deem.’ 

‘Yes.’ The word fell from her lips in a half-choked whisper. ‘Yes.’ 

‘Then tell me about her,’ said Thorin quietly. 

Ithilrian glanced at him with eyes that shone with unshed tears. ‘No, my lord. It is a long story, and the hour is late. I would have you properly rested before tomorrow’s march.’ 

Thorin smiled, leaning in closer to the fire. ‘There is no sleep in me tonight,’ he said. ‘The darkness of these hills presses heavily upon us. And I must admit, I find your voice a comfort in these cold, dead hours before sleep.’ 

Ithilrian smiled, her grey eyes warm, reflecting the dancing flames of their small fire. ‘Then I will speak, _hîr vuin,_ until you bid me to be silent.’ She drew her cloak more closely around her, gazing into the encroaching night before taking a slow, deep breath. 

‘My sister Celebrían was the gentlest creature ever to walk this earth,’ she began softly. ‘She was sweet, and wise, and kind. She never harmed another living creature all her life. It was not in her nature.’ Ithilrian smiled sadly and shook her head. ‘She was two hundred years my elder. I adored her. Idolized her. We were so different, you see. Where she was calm and mellow, I was wild and wayward. When she was gentle, I was fierce. While she could never bear to lay a hand upon blade or bow, I would hurtle through the woods, challenging the sylvan guards to archery contests, hunting stray goblins, fighting to earn my warrior’s braids.’ 

She paused. Thorin watched her carefully, feeling a warm glow inside at the sight of her fierce eyes softening in the fondness of recollection. 

‘She was so… bright. Golden, like the sun. We looked so different as well, you see: different, yet similar, as sisters often do. But while I looked the same as I do now, all in grey and silver, her hair fell in waves of brightest gold, and her eyes were the same blue as a clear sky on a summer’s day.’ She smiled to herself, chuckling softly. ‘She was blessed with mother’s looks, but also with my father’s gentle nature. He detested violence. I, on the other hand, take after my father in appearance; but they tell me I have my _ammë’s_ warrior spirit.’ 

Thorin chuckled into his beard. ‘I do not know your _ammë,_ but I do know that you have more fighting spirit than many I know who claim to be seasoned warriors.’ 

Ithilrian glanced back at him, grinning. She was clearly delighted. ‘That means a great deal from you, _mellon nîn._ Thank you.’ 

Thorin shrugged. ‘Tis foolishness not to recognize a fellow warrior spirit such as yourself.’ He shifted slightly, reaching into his jerkin for his pipe, which he began to fill meditatively. ‘My brother Frerin was such as your sister,’ he added, staring into the fire. ‘A gentle soul. He died in Erebor, trying to save my sister Dís.’ He sighed deeply. ‘The dragonfire took them both.’ 

‘I am sorry,’ breathed Ithilrian. 

Thorin shook his head. ‘My thanks, but it is an old, well-healed wound. Yet for all the time since your sister passed, your memory still seems… raw.’ 

Ithilrian nodded. ‘Aye, my lord. All my life she had been my dearest, and closest companion. We were… how do your people say it? As thick as thieves, the pair of us: the sun and moon of Lórien. She balanced out my wildness. In turn, I was her companion, and protector, in all things.’ Thorin winced, seeing Ithilrian’s gaze harden into bitter self-disgust. ‘I failed her.’ 

Thorin placed a hand on her arm, trying to draw her back from the self-loathing that was scrawling itself across her face. ‘What happened?’ 

She turned to look at his hand upon her arm, a wondering expression on her face. ‘I… many years ago, as I may already have mentioned, she met and fell in love with Lord Elrond of Imladris. That is how it happens with my people, you see. We love fiercely, and often at first sight. She fell for him almost at once; and he adored her in return. It was a good match.’ She smiled at the memory. ‘And so they were wed, and Celebrían went to live with him in the Hidden Valley, while I remained in Lothlórien. I was lonely, for a time; but we visited one another often.’ 

She paused, and ran her hand distractedly through her long fall of silver braids. When she spoke again, it was slowly and hesitantly, as though each word was being forcibly dragged from her lips. 

‘It was after one of these visits. Celebrían was travelling back to Imladris, over the High Pass through the Misty Mountains.’ Ithilrian winced. ‘It was to be a simple journey. But they were ambushed. Orcs and goblins swarmed the convoy. Her guards were all killed, and my sister was taken captive.’ She squeezed her eyes shut, and a single glimmering tear fell from beneath closed lids. ‘I don’t know how long they tortured her,’ she whispered. 

Thorin felt his breathing tighten, with sympathy and rage. His heart quickened in his chest, and he felt as though a stone had lodged within his throat. He could not speak; but simply squeezed the elf-maid’s slender arm tightly as tears unbidden spilled down her cheeks. She was breathing deeply, her jaw clenched, trying to keep a reign on her emotions. 

‘Of course, when Celebrían failed to return to Imladris, scouts were sent out,’ Ithilrian said slowly. ‘They found the remains of her guard, and deduced what had come to pass. A force was dispatched to rescue her, and to deal the orcs swift and deadly punishment. But it was too late. The damage was already done.’ 

‘They found her?’ asked Thorin gently. 

‘Yes,’ she nodded. ‘They brought her back to Imladris. But she never did recover from the ordeal. Her body eventually healed, despite the grievous wounds inflicted on it. But her mind…’ Ithilrian snarled: a low, feral, animal sound. ‘My sister. My clever, wise, and beautiful sister, who never raised her hand to another living thing in her life, was… lost. Her mind had been broken.’ 

‘Broken?’ asked Thorin shakily. ‘She never recovered?’ He shook his head and shuddered. He knew well what it was like to watch a loved one descending into madness: to watch a mind spiraling out of control and be helpless to prevent it.

‘She did not,’ replied Ithilrian, her voice cold, wiping the tears from her face with the back of her hand. ‘Her soul could not endure the horror of it. And when I arrived in Imladris to be with her… she could not recognize me.’ 

She was shaking. Thorin noticed her hand, clenched around the hilt of one of her daggers, white-knuckled. He could almost feel the rage and grief pouring from her in waves. He said nothing. There was nothing he could say. 

After a long and painful silence, Ithilrian began to speak softly again. ‘We tried to heal her. Lord Elrond plied all his arts, put forth all his power. That’s where I learned my healing craft, you see. I was desperate to help in any way I could. But it was all to no avail.’

Thorin nodded slowly. He was beginning to understand. ‘That is why you still feel the wound so bitterly,’ he said quietly. ‘You weren’t there. You could not protect her.’

Ithilrian hissed softly through her teeth. She sounded enraged, but when she turned to face Thorin her eyes were filled with grief. Suddenly, she looked so much smaller, much older, than she had an hour ago; as if she was bowed beneath the sheer weight of years and memory. 

‘Yes,’ she replied. ‘I was her protector, and… I failed.’ Bitterness edged her voice again. ‘My _dear_ brother-in-law, Lord Elrond, did not even see fit to tell me what was happening. I knew something was wrong: I could feel a pain, like saw-edged teeth digging into my gut. But it wasn’t until she was found and returned to Rivendell that I was summoned.’ A wry smile twisted her lips. ‘Father said later that it was done to protect me. That if I’d known sooner, I’d have gone on a bloodstained rampage through the goblin tunnels, killing and killing in the name of revenge, and most likely dying myself, locked in desperate battle far beneath the earth.’ 

Thorin smiled, squeezing her arm gently before removing it, suddenly self-conscious in the face of her frankness. ‘He was probably right,’ he said. 

‘Indeed,’ smiled Ithilrian. ‘When eventually I arrived in Imladris, I seldom left my sister’s side, until the decision was made to send her to Valinor so that she might be healed by the power of that land. Lord Elrond sat and tended her by day. I stayed at her side all night while she slept, singing away the memory of her terror, until she woke.’

Thorin nodded. His throat felt suddenly very tight. In a flash he recalled the terrible fever-sleep he’d fallen into, just before he’d met Ithilrian; he remembered the pain, the fear, and the soft, unfamiliar voice that had soothed his soul and driven away the darkness. ‘You did the same for me,’ he said, wondering that his words came out so steady, when inside he felt so shaken. ‘You sat by my side and sang away the nightmares during my fever-sleep.’ 

Ithilrian smiled, a little shyly. ‘You remember now?’ she said softly.

‘I do.’ Thorin’s voice was hoarse. ‘And I have never thanked you for it.’ He pulled himself swiftly to his feet and executed a clumsy, yet somehow still regal, bow. ‘Please accept my apologies, and my thanks, Silver Lady of Lórien.’ 

Ithilrian smiled; a warm, true smile. ‘Neither are needed, yet both are accepted, my King.’ 

Thorin breathed out heavily and sat down again. It suddenly seemed incredibly important, he thought, that she should accept; that she should know how grateful he was. ‘I am in your debt,’ he muttered. 

‘And I in yours,’ replied Ithilrian. 

‘How so?’ he asked, confused. 

She hesitated before replying. ‘I have never… spoken of this before. To anyone,’ she added. ‘I fled Imladris after we saw Celebrían to the Havens. I was in too much pain. I have been a wandering healer ever since, eschewing my titles and birthright for the last four hundred years. I have been alone that whole time. It feels… good, to unburden myself after so long.’ She smiled and shook her head. ‘Thank you for listening to my ramblings, _mellon nîn._ I may be nothing but a lonely old fool, with too many regrets and a stubborn old heart that refuses to heal. But I will always be at your service.’ 

‘As I am at yours,’ replied Thorin warmly. ‘I thank you for sharing this with me. You have shown me a great deal of trust.’ He paused. ‘Ithilrian, I…’ He hesitated. He wasn’t even sure what he was about to say; but instead of speaking, a huge yawn stretched over his face, and he shivered. 

Ithilrian laughed. ‘Now will you sleep, _hîr vuin?’_ She smiled when he glanced back at his cold bedroll, spread out some distance away. ‘You could always move it,’ she added gently. ‘The night is growing bitter, and I believe you may sleep better beside the watchfire.’ 

Thorin grunted in agreement, and stood up. Ithilrian allowed her gaze to wander over the darkened landscape, smiling at the muffled thumps coming from behind her as Thorin shifted his bedroll. He lay down opposite her, close enough to feel the warmth from the fire, close enough for Ithilrian to see the glimmering blue of his sapphire eyes through the flames. 

_‘Ollo vae, mellon nîn,’_ Ithilrian said softly. ‘Do not fear. I will watch, and catch you if you should fall.’ 

Thorin raised an eyebrow at her questioningly, but Ithilrian only shook her head and smiled. She turned her attention back to the lands around them, grey eyes piercing the darkness, her sharp ears listening out for any unfamiliar sounds. The night was still and cool. In a low, quiet voice, the elf-maid began to sing softly.

Thorin smiled to himself as he burrowed into his bedroll, tugging a spare blanket up around his shoulders. Sleep lay heavily on his eyes, and he sighed and allowed them to close slowly, lulled by the gentle crackle of the watchfire, and by the sweet notes of elvish melody as they spiraled upwards into the night, disappearing among the stars. 

~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew! Finally! My apologies for the mahoosively long chapter folks! Sorry as well for the time it's taken me to update this. I've just started a new job, and everything's a little frantic at the moment. Anyway, here is the next instalment. I hope you all like it. ^_^
> 
> Elvish translation notes:
> 
> Mellon nîn = my friend  
> Ammë = mother  
> Hîr vuin = my lord  
> Ollo vae = sweet dreams


	17. Ered Luin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The company finally reaches the outskirts of Ered Luin, and there is a reluctant parting of ways.

After the company left the hills, it was a simple journey across the plains. The mountains of Ered Luin loomed in the distance, growing steadily closer. Ithilrian could feel the hearts of the dwarves around her grow lighter, as they grew closer to the mountains: closer to home. But her own heart was heavy. She knew that her time journeying with them was almost at an end. 

‘What’s wrong, Miss Ithil?’ asked Kili over lunch. They had stopped to rest briefly, allowing the ponies to munch contentedly on the yellowing grass tussocks. ‘You look sad. Your face has gone all droopy.’

‘Droopy?’ she laughed. ‘My thanks for the compliment, Master Kili.’ 

‘You know what I mean,’ he shrugged. ‘You look like Uncle does sometimes. Like you’re worrying about something that you don’t want the rest of us to know.’ 

‘You are… surprisingly perceptive sometimes,’ Ithilrian replied, raising her eyebrows and eyeing the young dwarf appraisingly. Kili grinned in delight at the compliment. 

‘Or just lucky,’ interrupted Fili, who had wandered up to join the conversation. ‘But he’s right this time, Miss Ithil. You do look sad.’ 

‘My apologies.’ Ithilrian shrugged. ‘It is a personal matter. One I have no wish to trouble you with.’ She swallowed hard against the sorrow rising in her throat. _Soon they will be home,_ she thought. _Soon they will be safe, and have no further need of me; and I will have to leave them._

‘It would be no trouble, I assure you.’ The deep baritone of Thorin’s voice made her jump. He walked up to stand behind Fili, the habitual frown upon his face. ‘If you have a problem, then speak.’ 

‘I…’ Ithilrian found herself gaping. She really did have to get this under control, she thought. Whenever she caught an unexpected glimpse of Thorin, his raw beauty still took her breath away. 

‘Well?’ Thorin asked, raising one eyebrow questioningly. Kili glanced between the two of them, a slow grin spreading on his face. He nudged his brother and winked. Fili looked at him quizzically, unable for once to decipher what had triggered his brother’s mirth. 

‘I… if I am not mistaken, those are the mountains of Ered Luin before us, yes?’ said Ithilrian eventually. 

‘They are,’ nodded Thorin. 

‘I can see a river up ahead too,’ added Kili. ‘A big one.’ 

‘That is a tributary of the River Lune,’ replied Thorin gruffly. ‘It means we are a mere few days from the outskirts of our settlements, depending on how fast we travel.’ 

‘Did you hear that Fili?’ cried Kili excitedly. ‘We’re almost home!’ 

_Home._ The word lodged in Thorin’s throat like a burr, sharp and immovable. Ered Luin was not his home, and it never would be. Home to him meant beautiful halls of gold-veined stone; vast subterranean caverns, glimmering in the light of a hundred blazing torches; it was dark stone, and warmth, and the weight of his people’s history carved into the very living rock. 

_Erebor._

Ered Luin was nothing, could be nothing, compared to the majesty and splendor of the Lonely Mountain. Thorin scowled as homesickness bit down hard. An old and bitter grief rose in his throat. That his sister’s sons should so eagerly call the poor and grubby settlements of Ered Luin _home,_ when they should be princes, clad in the finest robes and jewels, learning to rule a vast kingdom… and instead, this place, and their poverty, was all they knew. 

He would not be ungrateful, thought Thorin. He would not throw away all they had worked so hard to build over the past few years. He would devote himself even more to helping his people rebuild their shattered lives; and while it would never truly be a home to him, perhaps it could be to others. The walls were strong and nobody was starving. It was a start. Just before he had left, one of the speculative mine shafts had come across a promising vein of silver. Trade negotiations were already being prepared. Things were progressing, moving forward. He had to remember this: whenever the guilt weighed down upon him, whenever the grief threatened to overwhelm him. They were, after all, the lucky ones. They were alive. 

Thorin swallowed hard against the hot, bitter anger that rose in his throat like bile. One day, he swore. One day he would see his people restored to their rightful place in Middle Earth: no longer beggars and vagabonds in the wilderness, but dwarf lords reclaiming their birthright. 

But that day was yet to come. Thorin sighed heavily, keeping his eyes trained on the familiar jagged peaks of Ered Luin, calculating how long it would be before they came upon the first guard post. Until that day came, until Erebor could be retaken, he would devote himself to his people, and try with all his soul to be the King they so desperately needed. 

_‘You could no sooner stop being a King, than you could stop being a dwarf.’_ Thorin shivered at the memory of those gentle words, whispered as softly as the night breeze. _‘It is in every line of your face; in every step you take; in the proud set of your jaw… I can see the power and majesty of your ancestors within you.’_ He gritted his teeth, feeling a muscle clench in his cheek. He would not fail, he thought to himself fiercely. That an _elf_ had shown him so much trust was almost unbearable. She was ancient, wise, and powerful; practically a queen in her own right. Yet she dipped her head to him, called him King, and showed him a faith that outshone even that of his own people. It troubled him. He would do his best to live up to her words, he thought. Whatever the cost. 

~

So it was, that day by day the company drew closer to Ered Luin. The ground grew rocky and hard underfoot, and the ponies found it slow going over the shifting stones and piles of shale. But most of the dwarves were in high spirits. Those who had come from Ered Luin in the first place seemed delighted to be finally back; while the brothers Ri and Ur were looking forward to laying eyes on their new home. 

Only Thorin among the dwarves was not happy. He had decided to live up to Ithilrian’s words, and devote himself to his people. Already he was plotting and planning, his mind beginning to fill with trade negotiations, ideas for new housing, fresh mine shafts to be opened up. Part of him was eager to get back, and get started; but part of him, a small, reluctant part, was whispering in the back of his mind, and weighing down his heart. 

For it was only within the last day of travel, before they reached the boarders of their settlements, that Thorin had received something of a revelation: one that brought him both overwhelming joy, and pain, and confusion in equal measure. 

He was in love with Ithilrian. 

He loved the way she smiled, that tiny upwards tug of her lips that was barely even an expression by dwarf standards; yet it always conveyed a deep, warm mirth within her, bubbling over like a mountain spring. He admired the lithe way she moved, so light on her feet, seldom tiring even after a full day’s march. He loved how her grey eyes became deep wells of emotion when they spoke softly together, how she had trusted him with the tale of her sister’s passing, how her singing lulled him to sleep at night. She was strange, and confusing, and bewildering: and he loved her. 

Finally, he was able to put a name to those strange feelings that had surged within him: that tight, warm glow that filled his chest, coiling around his heart, making his stomach lurch with pleasure at the sound of her laughter. 

But the revelation was bittersweet. 

It had taken far too long for him to realize this. Only now, when they were hours away from losing her, had he finally understood what his heart had been telling him all along. For surely, she would leave them on the outskirts of the mountain. He knew that she would; and even if she did not wish to, she would most likely have to. To bring her into Ered Luin itself would be stupid and dangerous. Most of the dwarves within had no love of elves. At best, she would receive dark looks and insults; at worst, those whose rage at Thranduil’s betrayal was still raw may even attack her. No, it would be best for her to go. For both of them.

‘Halt! Stand forward and be recognized!’ A gruff officious voice rang out from behind a nearby outcrop. ‘In the name of Durin’s sons… oh, sorry your majesty!’ 

A trio of heavily armed dwarfs had emerged from the foot of the mountain. Thorin recognized them as Frár, Nári, and Fíon: brothers and guards of the most far-flung outpost. All three pairs of eyes widened as they recognized their King and his companions; before narrowing again at the sight of the slender elf maid standing unconcernedly in the midst of the company. 

‘At ease, Frár,’ replied Thorin gruffly. ‘We have returned, with six more of our estranged kin.’ 

‘We are grateful for your safe homecoming sire,’ said the dwarf Frár respectfully. ‘We will accompany you back to the settlement.’

‘My thanks.’ Thorin nodded in acknowledgement. ‘What else?’ he added, noticing the young guard swallowing nervously. 

‘I did not receive word that you were bringing in an… elf, sire.’ He muttered.

Thorin sighed. He had been hoping to delay this moment for as long as he could. But he could prevaricate no longer. ‘Don’t concern yourself,’ he replied. ‘She will not be coming in to Ered Luin. She merely travelled with us, for a time.’ With a heavy heart, he turned to his company. ‘My friends, we are home. But I fear, Miss Ithilrian, your journey with us must end here.’ 

‘What?’ cried Kili. ‘But she’s our friend, uncle! We can’t just turn her out!’ 

‘Peace, Kili,’ said Ithilrian softly. ‘I knew this day would come. Your uncle is right. It would be unwise for me to remain here.’ She placed a hand on the young dwarf’s shoulder and squeezed it gently. ‘This is where I must bid you farewell.’

‘Fine,’ muttered Kili. ‘But don’t think you’re getting out of this without a proper hug.’ 

Ithilrian chuckled fondly. ‘I would not dream of it.’ She allowed her gaze to roam over the entire company of dwarves, refusing to allow herself to linger long on Thorin. ‘Come, let us say our farewells properly.’ She knelt down so as to be at dwarven height. ‘Fili, Kili…?’ she opened her arms invitingly, laughing as the two young princes flung themselves at her. She wrapped her arms tightly around their shoulders, trying to ignore the slow pain that was building in her chest. ‘I shall miss you two,’ she whispered in their ears. ‘I shall miss you more than you know.’ 

‘We’ll miss you too, Miss Ithil,’ muttered Fili. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll look after Kili, and make sure he keeps up with his archery practice.’

‘Look after each other,’ said Ithilrian gently. ‘And take care of your uncle as well. He may not like it, but he will need it.’ 

‘We will,’ said Kili, scrubbing a hand across his eyes and stepping back. ‘Promise.’ 

‘Good.’ Ithilrian smiled, turning her attention to the others. ‘Farewell, Bifur, Bofur, and Bombur! I shall miss your kind words and smiles. And your cooking,’ she added to Bombur, who blushed scarlet at the compliment. 

‘Aye lass, fare well wherever you go!’ replied Bofur, flashing her his dimpled smile. ‘Come back and visit us some time, will ye?’ 

‘If I can,’ nodded Ithilrian. ‘I swear it. Farewell, Balin and Dwalin, sons of Fundin! May your beards grow even longer,’ she added with a twinkle. 

Balin chuckled. ‘Tis strange, to have become so fond of an elf-maid such as yourself, over so short a time. But I believe we’ll be seeing you again, lass.’ He clapped her on the shoulder and smiled. ‘Till our next meeting, then.’ 

‘Aye,’ grunted Dwalin. The tough dwarf was not one for many words, Ithilrian knew. But to her surprise, he thrust out an arm and shook her hand fiercely. ‘You’ve been a friend to Durin’s folk, where many others turned us away,’ he said roughly. ‘Ye saved the life of my King. For that, the sons of Fundin stand in your debt.’ 

‘I am honoured,’ Ithilrian replied softly. ‘Until the next time, my friend.’ She turned to the next set of brothers. ‘Farewell, Dori, Nori and Ori,’ she said softly, smiling fondly at the sight of young Ori, his eyes wide, still clutching her journal to his chest. ‘I am sorry, Ori, that I did not have time to tell you all the tales that you asked for. Perhaps some other time…’ She enveloped each of them in a careful hug, smacking Nori’s hand fondly when he tried for the eighteenth time to lift one of her daggers. 

‘Miss Ithil,’ said Ori nervously. ‘I have something for you. Will you take it?’ He thrust out one trembling hand, holding a folded piece of parchment. Curious, Ithilrian unfolded it, gasping in surprise when she saw what it was. 

‘Ori…’ she muttered, stunned. ‘When did you do this?’ Outlined on the paper was a perfect pen and ink sketch of Ithilrian. The lines had been carefully inscribed, catching the shape of her eyes and ears, the hollow beneath her cheekbones, the weave of her silver braids. 

Ori stood on one foot awkwardly. ‘Well, I got bored during the watch hours you see, and everyone was asleep, so I thought…’ he shrugged, embarrassed. ‘Is is all right?’ 

‘All right?’ Ithilrian shook her head in disbelief. ‘Ori, it’s beautiful. I shall treasure it.’ She folded it up carefully and tucked it inside her tunic. The young dwarf stepped back, blushing, as Dori clucked fondly at him and Nori grinned in delight at his younger brother’s budding talent. 

‘Right then lass.’ Oin came stumping over, clapping her hard on one shoulder. ‘I for one will always call ye friend. You came at our call, when my medicines were all for naught. I speak for m’brother too,’ he added. 

‘Aye,’ nodded Gloin, glaring at her fiercely. ‘If’n you need any orcs beheaded nearby, call on us.’ 

Ithilrian chuckled. ‘I shall remember that, my friends,’ she replied. ‘I hope to see you again some day.’ She smiled warmly, but her expression cracked and fell as she turned towards the last dwarf; the one who was holding himself a little apart from the others; the one whose blue eyes were staring at her as though to pierce her heart straight through; the one whose departure would surely tear away yet another piece of her battered soul.

‘My lord Thorin,’ she said softly, dipping her head and standing before him. ‘Might I speak with you in private?’ 

‘Of course,’ replied Thorin gravely, with no sign of surprise. ‘Come.’ He beckoned her over, out of earshot of the guards, and the rest of the company who had begun to chatter amongst themselves. 

_‘Hîr vuin,_ I am not over-fond of long farewells,’ Ithilrian said softly. ‘Yet I would speak with you for a moment.’ 

‘And I will listen gladly.’ Thorin’s voice was rough, but his tone was gentle. ‘I must admit, it saddens me that we must part ways like this. You have been a good friend to my people. And to me,’ he added. 

‘Indeed, _mellon nîn,_ ’ murmured Ithilrian. ‘Which is why I have something for you, my King, if you would be kind enough to accept it.’ 

‘Of course.’ Thorin looked up at her with wondering eyes, as Ithilrian reached into her jerkin and pulled out the silver pendant that hung hidden around her neck, undoing the delicate clasp carefully. She laid it across her palm and held it out. 

‘This is called the Twilight Stone. It was given to me when I came of age, on the shores of Nenuial, the lake we passed so recently. It… has many memories within its heart.’ She proffered it to the dwarf king. ‘It was mine. And now it is yours.’ 

Thorin frowned, looking down at the pendant. A large, oval moonstone was encased in a delicate filigree of silverwork, engraved with a multitude of twining leaves and flowers. The pendant hung on a slender silver chain. It glimmered on her palm, the moonstone pale and smooth, but with the suggestion of hidden fires within its milky depths.

‘You cannot give me this,’ he muttered. 

‘It is mine to give to whom I will,’ replied Ithilrian gently. She closed her fingers around the chain and allowed the pendant to dangle, watching it catch the light of the late autumn sun. She reached out, taking one of Thorin’s hands within her own, trying to ignore the quiver of longing that the touch of his bare skin sent through her soul. She allowed the pendant to drop into the center of his palm, pooling the chain so that he was forced to close his hand over it. Her hand shook as she folded his fingers tightly around the jewel. ‘There,’ she said shakily. ‘It is done.’ 

‘What is?’ asked Thorin. His voice was low and hoarse. 

‘This jewel has a… connection to me,’ Ithilrian replied. She clenched the muscle in her jaw, fighting to keep her voice steady. ‘If ever you find yourself in darkness, doubt, or danger, hold the jewel in your hand and call my name. I will hear you, and I will come.’ 

‘What do you mean? Come where?’ 

‘I will be called to you in spirit,’ she replied softly. ‘I can send my thoughts to you, though my body may be far away. I will appear wherever you may need me.’ She tapped his fingers. ‘Keep the jewel with you at all times, I beg of you. My heart will rest easier if you do.’ 

‘I… that is a kingly gift,’ muttered Thorin. His voice was very low, and his eyes were trained upon his closed fist. ‘I thank you for it. Alas, I have nothing to give you in return.’ 

‘Then promise me something, Son of Durin,’ whispered Ithilrian. ‘If you ever have need of me; if you feel the urge to travel, to undertake a different quest…’ she paused, and looked at him shrewdly. ‘I beg you to call my name, so that I may journey with you once more. For I have found more joy in these last few weeks than I have in four hundred years of lonely wandering.’ 

‘I swear it,’ replied Thorin. His blue eyes blazed, and he looked up at her fiercely, challengingly. ‘I swear it, upon the Arkenstone itself.’ 

‘Thank you.’ Ithilrian sighed deeply, closing her eyes and bowing her head. ‘And now I must go. Your company becomes restless, and your guards grow ever more suspicious of me.’ She raised her head again. Grey eyes met blue eyes, and both burned with the fire of something that yet remained unsaid between them; something that neither of them could bear to say. 

‘Farewell, Thorin Oakenshield, King Under the Mountain,’ said Ithilrian eventually. She swallowed hard. ‘I will not say goodbye forever; for my heart tells me that we shall meet again, at least once more, before the end.’ 

Thorin inclined his head. ‘Farewell, Ithilrian Tinnulenath, Silver Lady of Lórien,’ he replied hoarsely. ‘Until our next meeting.’ 

There was nothing more to be said. Ithilrian stood slowly, moving each limb into place, willing herself to maintain her composure. She bowed her head in respectful farewell before turning on her heel and walking away, in the direction they had come from, back towards the Hills of Evendium. But it was hard. Her eyes were closed, and tears streamed unchecked down her face as she fought to stand tall against the pain that tore at her insides. 

For this was a feeling she knew well. It was something she had last experienced at the Grey Havens, watching her sister sail for Valinor. Most elves unlucky enough to experience such a rending of the soul only had to endure it once in a lifetime. Now, for Ithilrian, it was happening again. With every step she took away from Thorin, with every stride she took away from the other half of her own dear soul, something tore inside her. Her eyes burned with tears, and she gasped as her chest filled with agony. _Keep going,_ she thought fiercely. She walked slowly away from Ered Luin, away from the setting sun that was casting blood red rays over the snowcapped mountains; away from Thorin, who was standing where she’d left him, as still as if he’d been turned to stone. 

_To Rivendell,_ she thought through the fog of pain. _Find a horse, get to Imladris._ She knew she needed to rest. It was the only way her soul might begin to heal again. She placed a hand gingerly over her heart, feeling the slow, steady beat still pulsing within. It was not yet cracked, or broken. She would not fade just yet. There was hope: hope that she would live to see Thorin again. She would simply have to wait. 

~

For Thorin, as he stood and watched her depart, it was as if some great hand had reached up and snuffed out the light of the sun. What warmth there was in the air deserted him, and a biting, shivering cold crept into his bones. _Stupid, stupid,_ he thought to himself, his hand still clasped tightly over her gift, his eyes fixed on the receding figure of Ithilrian. She was walking slowly, her shoulders bowed, her head drooping. It hurt his heart to see her thus. He tightened his fingers around the jewel she’d given him. ‘Be well, my Twilight Star,’ he whispered hoarsely. ‘I will see you again, I swear. By the bones of my ancestors, I swear it.’

~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, my good gravy. That was fun to write. *runs off and hides under a blanket*
> 
>  
> 
> Elvish translation notes: 
> 
> Hîr vuin = my lord  
> Mellon nîn = my friend.


	18. Time Passes

The following days passed in a fog for Ithilrian. After several days of walking in a lonely daze of grief and pain, she had happened upon a farm. A few words and a handful of silver had persuaded the owners to part with one of their horses, a fine dapple-grey mare called Siptah. Together they forged a straight path across the plains, cutting directly through the remnants of lost Arnor; for Ithilrian was long past caring what lands sped by beneath her horse’s silver hooves. They made good time, skirting the North Downs and the Ettenmoors, until finally they reached the Ford of Bruinen. Ithilrian paused on the bank, reigning in Siptah, and regarding the chuckling water critically, before urging her forwards once more. The water bubbled and foamed around the horse’s legs; and by the time they had reached the far bank, an elven escort was waiting.

‘Hail and well met, Lady Ithilrian of Lórien,’ cried the lead elf in Sindarin. ‘The Lord Elrond bids you welcome back to Imladris. It has been too long since our valley was graced with your presence.’ 

‘Lindir,’ replied Ithilrian, forcing a weary smile onto her face. ‘It is good to see you again, my friend. You look well.’ 

The slender elf gave a slight bow. ‘You honour me, Silver Lady,’ he said, with a hint of the shyness that Ithilrian had always found endearing. ‘Come, be welcome in our valley. There is food on the tables, and song in the halls. Lord Elrond awaits your presence.’

‘My thanks,’ replied Ithilrian, gently nudging Siptah forwards. ‘Both will be most welcome. For we have ridden hard, and I am weary in both body and spirit.’ Her horse harrumphed loudly and tossed her proud head. ‘However, it seems Siptah here has more endurance than I,’ chuckled Ithilrian. ‘Make sure the stable master treats her well, Lindir. She has borne me far and fast, with no complaint.’ 

‘She is a fine and beautiful creature, my lady,’ nodded Lindir. ‘Have no fear. She will be in the best of hands.’ 

And so Ithilrian came into the valley of Imladris, a place that she had avoided for over four hundred years; for the memories there were ones of both joy and sorrow alike. But it was with her head held high that she came to meet with Lord Elrond; and it was with gritted teeth that she tried to hide her wounded soul from the murmuring Imladris elves who nodded and smiled shyly at her as they passed. 

‘Welcome, Ithilrian, daughter of Lothlórien,’ intoned Lord Elrond solemnly. He swept towards her, dressed in robes of rich autumnal browns and golds, with a circlet of silver resting on his sable hair. He was a powerful and regal sight. Ithilrian felt keenly how unused she was to the Imladris elves’ finery, dressed in her travel-stained leathers and worn cloak. Still, she held up her head proudly and met his dark eyes with her steely grey gaze. 

‘I thank you, Lord of Imladris, for the honour you have shown me,’ she replied regally. ‘Your realm is yet as beautiful as the memory I hold in my heart. I am afraid I must once more beg to trespass upon your hospitality.’ 

The stern face of Elrond cracked into a smile, and he came forward with his arms open. ‘It is no trespass, my old friend,’ he smiled. ‘It has been too long since I played host to a Lady of the Golden Wood. You are very welcome.’ 

Ithilrian grinned and stepped forwards, clasping her brother-in-law’s shoulder tightly and bowing her head. ‘You are too kind, brother,’ she murmured. ‘But I fear I shall be poor company these days.’ 

‘Do not worry,’ Elrond said softly, squeezing her shoulder gently. ‘I can see the hurt that lingers in you. Rest in my valley. I shall heal you as best I can.’ He paused, assessing her, looking deeply into her eyes. ‘Oh my dear Ithilrian,’ he added with a chuckle. ‘You have always had a positive talent for getting into trouble; I swear that’s where Elladan and Elrohir get it from. And now I see you have given your heart to a mortal. You were always the rash and reckless one.’ 

Ithilrian rolled her eyes. ‘Is it so obvious?’ 

Elrond sighed. ‘Only to my eyes, I believe. Do not fear. Your old suite of rooms is waiting for you. They have been left untouched, in the hope that you would return to us once more. Go now and rest. Allow your soul to recover.’ 

‘My thanks,’ murmured Ithilrian wearily. She turned on her heel, following the familiar corridors and passageways of Imladris, until she found herself in a familiar room. Her suite was a beautiful one, set high in the valley, commanding a spectacular view. But Ithilrian had no eyes for the scenery. She allowed her pack to fall with a muffled _thump_ before stripping off her travel-worn clothes and slipping into a simple white gown. The comfort of a real bed had never looked so appealing, she thought, sliding between the smooth cotton sheets and pulling the soft blankets over her head. 

_Sleep,_ was all she could think of. _Sleep, and perhaps when I wake up, everything will hurt less._ She knew it wouldn’t, of course. But there was always hope. 

~

Back in Ered Luin, Thorin strode through the mountain paths with all the regal bearing of a King returning to his kingdom. Of course, it wasn’t a kingdom, and he still didn’t feel like a King. But he had begun as he meant to go on. He had taken Ithilrian’s words to heart. He would become a true King for his people, or die trying.

He threw himself into his work. There were supplies to be sourced, trade to be negotiated, mines to run, ore to smelt, food to be bargained for, solid housing to be built. There was so much to do; and a lesser soul would have buckled under the weight of responsibility that Thorin now took upon his shoulders. But he did it gladly. It was something to fill that empty, gaping void in his chest that had been there ever since he’d watched the elf-maid with starlight hair walking out of his life. 

He kept his word, and wore the Twilight Stone always. It was hidden most of the time, tucked beneath the layers of leather and mail he habitually wore, so that the jewel rested against his bare skin, close to his heart. But his hand often went to it in moments of stress, or pain, or loneliness. Its warm weight was a comfort; bringing back the memory of gentle laughter amidst the crackling firelight, and a pair of deep grey eyes the colour of frosted river ice beneath a silver moon. 

~

And so the years began to pass, rolling from one season to the next. Thorin remained in Ered Luin, never travelling outside the settlement, for there was always so much to be done. But as two years passed, then five, then seven, and his black mane of hair began to develop threads of grey, the ache in his heart never diminished. And if sometimes he awoke from dark dreams with his hand clutched tightly around the Twilight Stone, and the drying tracks of tears upon his cheeks, then it was nobody’s business except his own. 

And if, back in Imladris, Ithilrian woke from fevered sleep with his name on her lips, and cold sweat on her forehead, then the healers did not mention it; for they had seen this soul-sickness among their kind many times. So none were surprised that despite the blossoms bursting forth every spring, and despite the best efforts of Lord Elrond, Ithilrian’s illness and melancholy persisted; and as the years stretched on, it became steadily worse. Even the wandering wizard Mithrandir, who dropped in several times over the years, could not cure her. He could only shake his grey head in sorrow, and whisper a spell of sleep over her, banishing fevered dreams and allowing her body to rest. 

~

Time passed: slowly for some, swiftly for others. But pass it did: until ten years after Thorin and Ithilrian parted ways, one innocuous night in early spring, during the waning of the moon, when things were set in motion that could not be undone. The date was March 15th, and the year was 2941; and a chance encounter in Bree triggered a series of events that became known in the annals of history as the Quest for Erebor. 

~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a short bridging chapter, to slide us over from the (massively long!) back story, and smoothly into Peter Jackson's movie canon. It'll be all go from here, folks… ;)
> 
>  
> 
> PS: the horse's name, Siptah, is borrowed (*stolen*) from another old fantasy book I adore, called the Gate of Ivrel by C J Cherryh. Just in case anybody was wondering.


	19. At the Sign of The Prancing Pony

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Old friends are reunited in the village of Bree; and preparations for a new quest get underway.

Thunder rolled.

For a long time this storm had been brewing, lurking around the Old Forest, disgorging the occasional mutinous rumble. Now, finally, it had broken wide, spewing jagged arcs of lightning and a torrent of freezing rain over the small village of Bree. 

Thorin groaned and pulled the hood of his cloak further over his face. The oiled leather was keeping the worst of the rain away; but he was hungry, cold, tired, and miserable. He had travelled alone to this village of Men, tracking whispered rumours of his father; and now that he was here, Thorin fervently wished he were somewhere else. Anywhere else, in fact. The buildings were too tall and ramshackle, and they loomed over him like great unfriendly faces. Rainwater dripped and gushed from the crumbling eaves, muddying the streets, pooling in potholes. Everywhere there were tall Men, with scowling faces and suspicious eyes. 

Thorin swore under his breath. It had been ten years since he had last made any great journey outside of Ered Luin, away from his people; and his memory of just how bad the other races could be had faded. Time had dulled the sting of the snide remarks, sly looks, and unfriendly grimaces that used to be cast in his direction whenever he and his company had ventured into a town to barter for supplies. 

He was also being watched. 

Thorin was no fool. He knew that he had enemies. Azog the Defiler might be rotting in the vast and trackless halls of Khazad-Dûm, curse him; but there were always others who sought to bring an end to the line of Durin. He was alone, in a strange place, and vulnerable. 

Well, no. Not completely vulnerable. He ran a hand along the hilt of his sword. It was a comforting, companionable presence at his hip. It did not need rest, or food, or sleep. It simply was there when he needed it. 

Hunching his shoulders against the thunder that still rumbled overhead, Thorin made for the sign of the Prancing Pony. It was by far the most reputable inn in Bree; but from a swift glance at the clientele, Thorin realized that wasn’t saying a lot. The interior was dirty, busy, and noisy, filled with drunken laughter and coils of strong-smelling pipe smoke. After speaking briefly with the innkeeper he threw himself down at an unobtrusive table, thanking the waitress gruffly when she appeared with food and ale before he tucked in ravenously. 

He kept a watchful eye on a pair of thugs at the neighboring tables. He did not like the dark looks they were giving him, or the way they were slowly getting to their feet and closing towards him, hands reaching for whatever filthy knives they kept in their belts. He reached out one hand for his sword, ready to loose it from its sheath and do bloody battle right there in the inn, when – 

‘Mind if I join you?’ An old, grey-bearded man plopped himself down at Thorin’s table, reaching out to the waitress. ‘I’ll have the same,’ he added, gesturing towards Thorin’s ale and bread, before leaning heavily on the table and smiling warmly at the dwarf. 

The thugs were backing off, realized Thorin. Slowly he unwound his fingers from his sword haft, taking a deep breath of relief. 

‘I should introduce myself. My name is Gandalf.’ The old man smiled companionably at Thorin. ‘Gandalf the Grey,’ he added. 

‘I know who you are,’ breathed Thorin, as realization hit him. Gandalf the Grey, the wandering wizard who had several times been a guest of his grandfather in the years before Erebor fell. Thorin had not seen him since then; but to his eye it seemed as though the wizard had not aged a day. 

‘Well now! This is a fine chance,’ Gandalf chuckled. ‘What brings Thorin Oakenshield to Bree?’ 

Thorin scowled. He suspected the wizard already knew. But he decided to play along, telling him briefly how his father was rumored to have been wandering the wilds near Dunland, ignoring the cold, dim ache in his chest as he did so. His grandfather was long dead; and his father was dead, lost, or mad. It seemed, thought Thorin bitterly, that he had trouble holding on to the things he loved most in life. 

He clenched his fingers tightly around his ale tankard, listening to Gandalf’s reply with gritted teeth. He did not want to be told that his father was dead. He did not want to be told that, before he went missing, the wizard had urged him to reunite the dwarf kingdoms and take back Erebor. He most certainly did not want to listen to the grey wizard urging him, Thorin, to do exactly the same thing. 

‘This is no chance meeting, is it Gandalf,’ he muttered into his ale.

‘No,’ the wizard replied. ‘It is not. The Lonely Mountain troubles me, Thorin. That dragon has sat there long enough. Sooner or later, darker minds will turn towards Erebor.’ He fixed Thorin with a meaningful glare. Thorin matched it with a glower of his own. As if he hadn’t already thought about that. As if the desire to return to his home – his _real_ home – hadn’t burned within him for many years. But they lacked the strength, and the means, to do so. He was just opening his mouth to tell the meddling wizard, when Gandalf interrupted him. 

‘I ran into some unsavory characters while travelling on the Greenway,’ he said, in a more conversational tone. ‘They mistook me for a vagabond.’

‘I imagine they regretted that,’ said Thorin darkly. He knew the tales of the Grey Wizard as well as any other. Only a fool would get on Gandalf’s bad side. 

‘One of them was carrying a message,’ Gandalf continued, ignoring him. He unfolded a stinking scrap of cloth and pushed it across the table towards Thorin. It was inscribed with the harsh, scrawling marks of Black Speech. ‘It is a promise of payment,’ added Gandalf, with a knowing look. 

‘For what?’ Thorin asked. 

‘Your head,’ replied Gandalf solemnly. ‘Someone wants you dead.’ 

After that, Thorin leaned forwards, paying real attention as Gandalf continued. He spoke long about how they could afford to wait no longer to mount an expedition to Erebor. He talked enthusiastically of uniting the armies of the dwarves, of marching under one banner, to take back the Lonely Mountain. 

‘The dwarf lords will not unite under me,’ he hissed at Gandalf angrily. ‘They swore an oath, yes: but to the one who wields the King’s jewel. The Arkenstone. Which, as you may recall, was stolen by Smaug.’ 

‘What if I were to help you reclaim it?’ asked Gandalf musingly. 

‘How?’ breathed Thorin. ‘The Arkenstone lies half a world away, buried beneath the feet of a fire-breathing dragon.’ 

‘It does,’ affirmed Gandalf. There was a mischievous glimmer in his eye as he leaned forwards, dipping his head towards Thorin conspiratorially. ‘Which is why we’re going to need a burglar.’ 

~

Shortly afterwards, the dwarf and the wizard removed their conversation from the inn’s common room, continuing it in a small upper chamber, which Gandalf had taken as lodgings for the night. It was a quieter and safer place in which to plan strategy. Thorin found himself growing strangely excited as they talked, burning with an inner fire he had not felt for months. 

The years in Ered Luin had been hard. The weight of the responsibility he had taken upon himself was bearing heavily upon him. His hair was streaked with grey, and his brow was scored with deep frown lines. It had been a long time since he had even cracked a smile, let alone laughed. There had always been something to deal with: complaints to listen to, fights to settle, more food to be found… 

He did not like to admit it, but Thorin Oakenshield was close to the end of his tether. His shoulders always ached; and he found his hand crept more and more to the jewel he still wore around his neck, hidden beneath his tunic. He ached for the secret comfort if offered, longing to loose himself in the memory of grey eyes and a silvery laugh; if only for a moment. 

He resisted the urge to reach for it again as Gandalf pulled up a chair, quill and parchment in hand. ‘We will only need a small force,’ he began decisively. ‘A large army will attract attention, and that is the last thing we want. You should put together a small company, of only a dozen or so, using only those you trust.’ 

Thorin nodded slowly. ‘I can do that. There are several dwarves I have travelled with before, whose loyalty is not in question. If they are willing to sign on to this venture…’ 

‘Then that is an excellent beginning,’ said Gandalf. ‘What number are they?’ 

‘Twelve,’ replied Thorin. 

‘And you make thirteen,’ mused Gandalf. ‘Very well. You supply your company of dwarves, and I shall find us a burglar, to make up the lucky number.’ 

Thorin nodded, hesitating. A memory was pulling at him, tugging at his heart. It was the memory of an oath he had given ten years ago: an oath sworn in pain and passion and grief. It was a memory he would occasionally allow to come forward at the dead of night, when sleep was hard to come by and the darkness seemed to press heavily upon him. 

‘There is… one other companion I would bring,’ he began slowly. 

‘Oh?’ The wizard raised his bushy grey eyebrows. ‘Another dwarf?’ 

Thorin shook his head and swallowed. This was going to be difficult. He had not allowed himself to even speak her name aloud for years. ‘No. She is not a dwarf.’ 

‘She? A human, then?’ said Gandalf, his eyes widening in surprise. 

Thorin groaned. ‘No. Her name is Ithilrian. Ithilrian Tinnulenath.’ A smile threatened to tug at his mouth as the once-familiar syllables slid from his tongue like quicksilver. Joy and pain rose within him at her memory. ‘She… what? Do you know her?’ He glared at Gandalf. The wizard’s eyebrows had shot into his hairline, and his face held an unabashed expression of shock. 

‘Know her?’ Gandalf shook his head wonderingly. ‘I do indeed. Her mother is a very old friend of mine, and I have met her daughter several times over recent years. I am simply… astonished to find that you know her name at all; let alone that you wish for her as a companion. It will be a long and dangerous road, Thorin, with a dragon at the end of it. May I ask _why_ you so desire the company of this elf-maid?’ 

Thorin shrugged uncomfortably. ‘It is a matter of honour,’ he grunted. ‘I swore an oath to her ten years ago. Besides, she has journeyed with us before. I know she is a clever healer and a strong fighter. If our road is as dangerous as you say, then we shall need both of those talents ere we reach Erebor.’ 

Gandalf sat back, shaking his head in amazement. ‘To think that you, Thorin Oakenshield, would be asking for the help of an elf of all people,’ he murmured to himself, chuckling as his filled his pipe. ‘I had expected many things; but this takes the cake.’ He lit his pipe with a snap of his fingers; puffing on it for several seconds until blue smoke curled up from the bowl, before looking back at Thorin with a sorrowful look on his face. ‘I am afraid, Thorin, that your oath may have to wait. The elf in question is not likely to be joining your quest.’ 

‘Why not? Is she still wandering? Can she not be found?’ asked Thorin impatiently. 

Gandalf shook his head slowly. ‘No. I know exactly where she is. I saw her only the other week, in fact. She is currently in Rivendell, under the care of Lord Elrond.’ His face grew grave. ‘She is not well, Thorin. She sickens month by month. I do not believe she would be up for such a journey.’

‘She is sick?’ A cold lance of fear shot through Thorin. His mouth grew dry and his stomach clenched. ‘What ails her?’ He swallowed hard, trying to dispel the knot of horror that twisted his insides. 

Gandalf sighed. ‘It is a… certain type of soul-sickness, Thorin. Something peculiar to elves, so I understand. Her body is well; but her spirit is fading. Lord Elrond is… not hopeful. I have seen many of the elder folk perish from such a sickness before. She may be forced to leave these shores, to sail for Valinor to find healing there.’ 

‘Is she going to die?’ Thorin snapped bluntly. His hand crept unconsciously to the jewel around his throat. He felt cold, numb with shock. _Ten years,_ he thought bitterly. _Ten years, and I never so much as sent her word. She could have been dying this whole time; and I’d never have known._ His hand tightened around the smooth, familiar weight of the Twilight Stone. _Ithilrian, do not die,_ he thought desperately. _Not now. Not when I might finally…_

‘No.’ The old wizard’s voice snapped him from his thoughts. Gandalf was eyeing him curiously, puffing on his pipe. ‘No, I do not think she is dying. Not yet. But I have seen it prove fatal to others.’ 

‘Then I must speak with her,’ declared Thorin decisively. ‘I must see for myself.’ 

‘Then you must travel with me to Rivendell,’ replied Gandalf. 

‘Perhaps not,’ Thorin said. He pulled the Twilight Stone from beneath his tunic, tugging the chain over his head and holding it up so that the pale moonstone dangled between them, glimmering in the light. ‘I have this,’ he added. ‘She told me that... that I might use it to call to her.’

It sounded stupid, he realized, as soon as the words left his mouth. How could a shiny jewel be used to call to someone, anyway? It had no magical properties that he could find. He glared at Gandalf, certain that the wizard was going to mock him. But the anger he saw etched in the old man’s face made him catch his breath. 

‘How came you by this?’ Gandalf rumbled in a voice like thunder. The wizard’s bushy brows were lowered, and he was glaring at Thorin fiercely. ‘Answer me!’ 

‘She gave it to me,’ snapped Thorin. ‘When we parted ten years hence. She called it a gift; and bid me to wear it always.’

‘Indeed?’ Gandalf raised his eyebrows disbelievingly. ‘It is hardly the sort of thing she would just _give_ away…’ 

‘Yet I did.’ A soft voice from behind them made both males spin around in shock. Gandalf huffed with surprise, but a slow smile threatened to creep over Thorin’s face. For there, standing by the latticed windows, as bright and alive as the day she had left him, was Ithilrian. She was dressed in a simple white linen gown, over which had been thrown a dark silver-grey robe, with long sleeves and a deep hood. Her hair was unbound, freed from her travelling braids, falling across her shoulders in a long wave of pale silver. 

_‘My lady,’_ said Gandalf softly, in perfect Sindarin. _‘Forgive me. I did not expect to see you.’_ He glanced between her and Thorin, a slow smile spreading across his face. _‘So this is the answer to all the riddles?’_

_‘Yes,’_ she replied simply, still in Sindarin. _‘He is my heart, Gandalf. I have sickened since the day we were parted.’_ She glanced warmly at Thorin before flicking her icy gaze back towards the wizard, who was now chuckling to himself around the stem of his pipe. _‘Not one word, Mithrandir,’_ she added. _‘He knows nothing of this. If you speak of my feelings to him, be warned: I will put nettles in your walking boots.’_ Her mouth twitched in mirth, but her eyes were deadly serious. 

‘Very well,’ Gandalf nodded, a twinkle in his old eyes. ‘Have it your way.’ He turned back to Thorin, speaking once again in Westron. ‘Well Thorin, it appears I… miscalculated. The Lady Ithilrian here might just be joining you on your quest after all.’ He gave a loud cough that sounded suspiciously like a laugh. ‘I’ll… ah, just pop downstairs to… fetch some more ale,’ he added. ‘Give you two a moment to catch up, hmm?’ He left the room humming, closing the door behind him and chuckling. _Well well,_ he thought to himself. _This is an unexpected turn of events._ He could not suppress a grin as he descended the rickety stairs in search of the innkeeper. He could not help but wonder if this journey might end up even more entertaining than he’d imagined. 

~

Back in the chamber, Ithilrian was the first to break the silence. ‘Thorin,’ she said softly, as though relishing the sound of his name. ‘Well met, _mellon nîn_.’ 

‘Ithilrian,’ he replied hoarsely. His eyes never left hers. ‘How came you here?’ 

She shrugged. ‘I felt you call my name,’ she said simply. 

‘I…’ Thorin shook his head in disbelief. He wanted to reach out and touch her, to make sure that she was real, and not just a figment of his fevered imagination; but he held back. 

‘Do not be afraid,’ she said gently. ‘My body is safe, deep in slumber at Imladris. I felt your call, and sent my spirit in search of you. I am here as a shadow of a thought only.’ She raised her hand. It went straight through the wooden table. ‘You see?’

‘Gandalf said you were sick,’ Thorin said bluntly. He gazed up at her fiercely, not even trying to mask his concern. ‘He said it might prove fatal.’ 

Ithilrian smiled. Only then did Thorin realize just how much he had missed that smile: the gentle tug of her lips, the quiet mirth, the way her eyes crinkled and softened when she gazed at him. _Durin’s beard,_ his thoughts whispered softly. _She’s so beautiful. How could I not see that before? Was I blind?_

‘I have been… unwell, for a time,’ replied Ithilrian, with another glimmering smile. ‘But I am healing with every passing second.’ 

‘That is… good to hear,’ he muttered. 

‘I agree,’ she nodded. ‘Especially as I could not help but overhear what you and Mithrandir were discussing. You are planning to embark on a quest, _hîr vuin?’_

‘Yes,’ replied Thorin. ‘To Erebor. You said once…’ _You asked me to swear to you,_ he thought. He cleared his throat and pulled himself together. ‘I know it has been a long time, Silver Lady of Lórien.’ He spoke carefully, formally. ‘You may not wish to stand by what you said; and I will not hold you to it. But if you are willing… then I would fain have you in my company once more, my lady.’ 

He waited with bated breath. A slow, delighted smile spread over the elf-maid’s face. It was a truly warm smile, that made him think of spring; as well as making the heat rise fiercely into his cheeks and a long-forgotten _something_ stir in the hollow cavity of his chest. She stepped lightly towards him, and he noticed that her feet were bare. 

‘My lord Oakenshield,’ she said softly, dipping her silver head and dropping to one knee so that they could be at eye level. ‘I can think of nothing I would enjoy more than to travel in your company once more.’ Her grey eyes twinkled and glittered merrily, reminding Thorin of faraway stars.

‘Then… I will have the contracts drawn up,’ he replied hoarsely. ‘It will take some time to get everything prepared. But…’ his face cracked into a smile: the first truly happy smile in months. He felt laughter bubbling up inside him, letting it out as a deep, bass chuckle. ‘It’s good to see you again, Ithilrian. Even if it’s just as… a shadow of a thought.’ He gestured vaguely towards her slender form, reaching out towards her arm but stopping himself just in time. ‘Are you real? Are you really here?’ he added wonderingly. 

‘Indeed, for a given value of real,’ she replied laughingly. ‘But in time, I hope to be with you in both flesh and spirit again; instead of just the latter. When are you planning to set out?’ 

Thorin opened his mouth to reply, but hesitated as Gandalf came bustling in once more, bearing two foaming tankards of ale. ‘Here we are,’ he said jovially, plonking them down on the table, and pushing one towards Thorin. ‘A toast to our quest!’ He raised his own tankard, glancing apologetically at Ithilrian. ‘I did not think you would have a taste for ale, my lady. I could ask the innkeeper for some wine…?’

The elf laughed. ‘There is no need, Mithrandir. I will toast the start of our quest when it truly begins; when I may stand beside you both once more.’ 

‘That is heartening indeed to hear,’ smiled Gandalf. ‘I am so very glad you are recovering, my lady. So, this is what I propose. It will take several weeks for Thorin and I to iron out all the details. He must return to Ered Luin, to recruit the rest of the Company; and I have some business of my own to attend to. I must also find Thorin a burglar.’

‘A burglar?’ Ithilrian raised one eyebrow quizzically. 

‘Indeed,’ twinkled Gandalf. ‘I shall fill you in later, Ithilrian. Suffice to say, that when everything is ready, I shall call upon you in Imladris, with the time and date that you are to meet with the rest of the company. Does that suit you?’ 

‘It does,’ nodded Ithilrian. ‘Until then, Mithrandir. I shall await your coming eagerly. _Namárië.’_ Turning, she inclined her head gracefully to Thorin, another warm smile glimmering on her lips. ‘Farewell, my King. Until our next meeting.’ 

Thorin raised his tankard to her, and bowed his head gravely. His throat was too tight for words. When he lifted his head again, she was gone. 

‘Gandalf…’ he muttered wonderingly. ‘Was that…?’ 

‘Real?’ said Gandalf archly. ‘Of course it was.’ He sniffed disapprovingly. ‘I did not know the Lady Galadriel had taught her daughter some of her arts. Still, they may prove useful in the time ahead of us.’ He cast a knowing, sideways look at Thorin. ‘I am surprised at you, Thorin Oakenshield,’ he added softly. ‘She is a… rare jewel to find in these dark times. She can be bright as firelight, and hard as mithril; but soft as velvet and as merry as any hobbit lass in spring. Or at least, she used to be, in times long passed.’ He chuckled to himself. ‘And perhaps, once our quest is done, she will be once more.’ 

‘What do you mean by that?’ Thorin asked gruffly. 

‘Oh nothing, nothing,’ replied Gandalf airily, flapping a hand dismissively. ‘Events have simply taken an… interesting turn. That is all. Now, to business. What are the names of these fellows you are planning to take with you?’ 

‘Well, definitely Balin and Dwalin for starters,’ replied Thorin, counting names off on his fingers. ‘And I cannot leave Fili and Kili behind. Then there’s Oin and his brother Gloin…’

And so they sat, the wizard and the dwarf, planning together in a small room of the Prancing Pony long into the night, while the stars burned overhead and the storm wore itself out into nothing but a puff of wind and the memory of distant thunder; and many leagues away, in the Hidden Valley, a single elvish voice was raised in a song of joy, and love, and of hope re-kindled. 

~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See? Now everybody's happy again! (Well, for a given value of 'happy' anyway…) ^_^
> 
> Elvish translation notes:
> 
> Hîr vuin = my lord  
> Mellon nîn = my friend  
> Namárië = farewell. 
> 
> Such a shame I couldn't find the actual Sindarin translation for "I will put nettles in your walking boots." Le sigh.


	20. Reunited

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which preparations are made on both sides for the upcoming journey.

‘Lady Ithilrian, what in Eru Ilúvatar’s name are you doing?’ asked Lord Elrond, aghast. He had entered her suite that morning to find books, clothes, boots, weapons and medicine vials strewn everywhere. A large travelling pack lay open upon the bed, which Ithilrian was busy fiddling with, humming merrily under her breath.

‘I’m packing,’ she replied cheerfully.

‘Packing?’ he replied weakly. ‘It looks like the wrath of the Valar has descended upon this room, Ithilrian. What, may I ask, are you packing for? And does it need to be quite so… chaotic?’ 

Ithilrian glanced sideways at him, directing a smirk at her fastidious brother-in-law. ‘Don’t fret, brother. I shall tidy up after myself. But I want to be ready to leave when the summons arrive. A new venture is calling me. I await only Mithrandir’s word before I leave.’ 

‘Mithrandir?’ Lord Elrond rolled his eyes. ‘What is he up to now?’ 

Ithilrian smiled. ‘The usual, I suspect: meddling in affairs that do not concern him.’ 

‘But which do concern you?’ said Elrond.

‘They do now,’ Ithilrian replied. 

Elrond sighed and shook his head. ‘Ithilrian, please do sit down,’ he said in a pained voice. ‘You cannot simply go running off into the wilderness again. You are still weak, and in need of healing. You must…’ He paused, narrowed his eyes, and glared hard at the slender elf-maid. ‘You are… stronger,’ he added slowly, twisting the ring on his finger. ‘I can see it. Your spirit is… healing.’ 

‘Yes,’ she smiled. ‘I have received word from my… from somebody.’ 

‘Oh?’ Lord Elrond arched one exquisite eyebrow. ‘From whom? Not this… this _dwarf_ you so recklessly lost your heart to?’ 

‘Yes,’ Ithilrian replied evenly. ‘From Thorin Oakenshield, my Lord Elrond. He has asked me for my help on his latest venture, and I have agreed.’ 

‘I see,’ smiled Elrond. A small, fond smile spread over his ageless features. ‘Well, that explains your high spirits, at least. Although,’ he added softly, ‘I fear this may only be a temporary reprieve, Ithilrian. I beg you to be wary. You are still sick at heart, I deem.’ 

‘I know,’ she replied quietly. A small, sad smile passed swiftly over her face. ‘I am not as strong as once I was. I am aware that my time is… limited.’ Her eyes clouded. ‘I know he does not return my love. Indeed, I am sure he is unaware of it entirely. Yet it is enough, for now, just to see him; to hear the sound of his voice, to look into his eyes and know he thinks of me as a friend. I do not ask for more.’ 

‘I know.’ Elrond sighed. ‘You were always brave, Ithilrian. But he is a mortal. And like all mortals, he will die: sooner or later.’ 

‘I know it,’ she replied. ‘And when that day comes, my heart will surely break, and I will fade. But until that day, I intend to spend as much time as I can at his side.’ 

‘A noble sentiment,’ said Elrond. Ithilrian glanced at him sharply, but there was no trace of mockery in the grey eyes of the Lord of Imladris: only sympathy, and understanding. ‘You forget, my lady, that I too know the pain of losing the one you hold most dear,’ he added quietly. 

Ithilrian stood swiftly, and grasped his arm. ‘I know,’ she muttered, resting her head briefly against her brother-in-law’s broad shoulder. ‘Celebrían was not only my sister, but your wife as well. I do not know how you survived her loss.’ 

Elrond shrugged. ‘I know that I will see her again, when I take a ship into the West with the last of my people. I long for that day; but I will not shirk my duties as a guardian of Middle Earth because of it.’ 

‘Now _that_ is a noble sentiment,’ chided Ithilrian softly. ‘Come, my lord Elrond. Let us try to forget our troubles, at least for a while. Advise me on what to pack for this journey, for I am utterly confused by having so many clothes to pick from. Do you think I should bring the dark grey walking boots, or the tan brown riding boots? For surely there is no room for me to take both.’ 

Elrond rolled his eyes, smiling fondly as he helped his sister-in-law. He was glad at heart to see her back once again to her recklessly cheerful self. Since the loss of Celebrían, and now the loss of her heart to this dwarf, he had hardly recognized the grief-stricken and sorrowful elf she had become. Peculiar it might be, for one of the Elder Folk to fall so in love with one of Mahal’s Children; but if it made her happy, Elrond was not going to complain over-loudly. It was enough to see her smile again; to draw from her that soft, silvery laugh that reminded him so much of her sister. Smiling, he bent to help her tidy up, wondering what strange times Middle Earth was coming to. 

~

The weeks were passing slowly. Ithilrian had taken to pacing the borders of Rivendell impatiently, waiting and watching for any sign of Mithrandir. Her pack was ready, stocked with fresh medicines and spare clothes, and her weapons were polished and waiting in their sheaths. All she needed was word from the Grey Wizard; which arrived early one morning in late spring, as the rising sun streaked the sky with pink and orange fire. 

‘My lady Ithilrian!’ he greeted her cheerfully. ‘What a delight it is to see you so well again.’ 

‘Mithrandir,’ she replied warmly. ‘It is good to see you too. Do you bring news?’ 

‘I do,’ replied the wizard, eyes twinkling merrily. ‘Much news, and on many different subjects. However, I suspect there is only one thing on your mind right now.’

‘Indeed,’ grinned Ithilrian. ‘Please forgive my impatience, old friend. Do come in, and partake of some refreshment. Elrond will be delighted to see you again.’ 

‘Hmmm.’ The old wizard grinned. ‘Well, I shall go and speak with Lord Elrond presently. But for now, if it will stop you hopping up and down like a frog on a hot stone, I shall tell you this: several days from now, that is April 26th, a meeting of the Company of Thorin Oakenshield has been arranged at Bag End, the home of one Bilbo Baggins. He is a hobbit of the Shire; and, with any luck he will be your fifteenth companion on the road.’ 

‘A hobbit?’ replied Ithilrian, curiosity gleaming in her eyes. ‘I have never met a hobbit before. What is he like?’ 

Gandalf snorted. ‘That you shall find out for yourself soon enough. Here is the address. I have also marked the door, so you may know by sight which one it is.’ 

‘Oh?’ Ithilrian took the scrap of paper, looking it over eagerly. ‘I have no need of a mark on the door to guide me, Mithrandir. I have travelled alone for many years. I have a trustworthy sense of direction.’ 

‘You may, but certain others I know – naming no names, of course – do not.’ The old wizard chuckled, apparently at some private joke. ‘However, I have also been asked to convey a further message. The leader of our company wishes you to meet him before travelling into Hobbiton. He will be waiting for you, after noon at the Green Dragon Inn, near Bywater.’ 

‘I see.’ Ithilrian could not hide the excited grin that spread across her face. ‘My thanks, Mithrandir. I shall see to my pack and my horse, and leave at once. Will you ride with me?’ 

‘Not this time,’ Gandalf replied. ‘I must speak with your brother-in-law, and take care of a little business first. I shall meet you with the others, in Bag End.’ 

‘Very well.’ Ithilrian bowed low to the wizard. ‘Farewell then, old friend.’ 

The grey wizard merely chuckled and waved her away. Ithilrian turned on her heel and left, her light footfalls making no sound as she sped through the many twisting corridors of Imladris. Grabbing her pack, she checked it over one last time, before strapping on her weapons and slinging a richly embroidered dark grey cloak around her shoulders. 

‘Farewell, my Lord Elrond!’ she called down to the tall, dark figure she spotted beside one of the fountains. ‘May the stars shine upon you, until we meet again!’ 

‘Farewell!’ The rich, deep voice of her brother-in-law floated up to her from the valley. ‘I hope you find what you seek, Silver Lady. Good luck!’ He raised one hand before turning away. 

Smiling happily, Ithilrian led her horse from the stables. She had chosen to ride with Siptah, the same dapple-grey mare she had arrived at Imladris with. She was a strong and beautiful horse, who had already proved herself more than capable of bearing her slender rider for many long miles. 

Singing quietly to herself, Ithilrian leapt lightly into the saddle, and gently nudged Siptah forwards. The horse whinnied softly in response, glad to be out of the stables; setting a gentle pace as together they rode up the winding path, away from the warmth and comfort of Rivendell, and towards the unknown. 

~

The sun had just passed noon when Thorin Oakenshield arrived at the Green Dragon. He had left his pony in the hands of a stuttering stable lad, before entering the dim and smoky interior in search of a well-deserved pint of ale. 

All in all, he thought, everything seemed to be progressing well. He had noticed several other ponies in the stable shadows, each sporting a familiar dwarven harness – which meant that his company was beginning to come together. He had told them all to meet at the home of this Bilbo Baggins that Gandalf had been talking about. He wanted to spend some time alone with his thoughts; and, more importantly, enjoy a moment alone with one person in particular. 

He sat at a small table in a corner; ignoring the curious glances the local hobbits sent his way. They seemed an amiable enough folk, he thought: most of them were round, red-faced, and cheerful, happy to while away the afternoon comparing the size of their home-grown vegetables over a pint or two of quite passable ale. Why on Middle Earth the meddling wizard had decided to pick one of these simple folk as the fifteenth member of their company, Thorin had no idea. Hopefully there would be more to this Bilbo Baggins than met the eye. 

‘Everything all right there, Mister?’ A curly-haired hobbit server approached Thorin’s table, carrying a fresh pint of ale. ‘Will you be wanting anything to eat with that?’ 

‘No, thank you,’ Thorin replied, trying to moderate his gruff voice, so as not to intimidate the gentle folk. ‘I shall be eating later. I am simply here to meet someone.’ 

‘Oh?’ The server’s eyebrows rose inquisitively. ‘Somebody local, sir? I’m sure I know the names of most of the folk around here…’ 

‘No.’ Thorin shook his head, trying to conceal his impatience. ‘She is not local. She is an elf.’ 

‘An elf!’ The hobbit’s eyes widened in surprise. ‘I’m sure we don’t see many of those around here, sir. Not that we see many dwarves either, begging your pardon of course.’ 

‘Of course,’ replied Thorin, sighing. ‘Well, if you happen to see an elf-maid, would you be so good as to direct her to my table?’ 

‘Oh yes, sir! I certainly shall!’ The hobbit server beamed at him before bustling away. From the corner of his eye Thorin watched, amused, as the server leaned over to whisper something excitedly to the other curly-haired hobbits behind the bar. A curious folk, indeed. 

As he waited, Thorin found his heart was beating unnaturally fast. Unfamiliar thoughts chased each other around his head. Had Gandalf passed on the message? Would she even come? What if she had decided against the entire venture, and remained in the safety of Rivendell? He groaned. He was behaving like a lovestruck dwarfling, he realized. He was going on a quest to face a fire-breathing dragon, for Mahal’s sake. The fact that the thought of seeing a certain elf-maid again made him more nervous than the idea of facing Smaug, was ridiculous. 

From his seat in the corner, he spotted her before she saw him. He was powerless to stop his heart from beginning to thunder in his chest. It was so loud, he thought, that she must be able to hear it.

She entered the inn carefully, stooping to avoid striking her head on the low-slung doorframe, stepping up to the bar. It barely came up to her waist. The figure was hooded and cloaked, but it had to be her. Nobody else on Middle Earth walked with that lithe, feline grace. He watched the flustered hobbits fussing around her, and chuckled to himself. 

‘Oh, Mistress… Ithil, was it? Right this way if you please, ma’am. So few elves we get in here these days, yes indeed!’

‘No, I’m sorry, we don’t stock Dorwinion wine, haven’t done so for many a year now. But we’ve a few bottles of the Old Vineyard’s in the cellar, if you’ve a mind for it? It’s a good red, the 1296 I believe: a very good year, that was…’

‘Your companion? Ma’am, there’s a dwarf sitting over there, asked to speak with any elves that might show up, presumably meaning your good self…’ 

She turned at that last comment. Despite her deep hood, he caught the glint of her eyes as she scanned the room, her gaze alighting almost immediately upon him. He forced himself not to grin like a maniac, instead offering her a dignified nod and gesturing to the seat beside him. She gave him a nod in return, moving away from the bar and stepping lightly towards him. 

How much he had missed her, he thought, as his mouth grew dry and his pulse quickened. Her hair was braided back once more, and she was wearing her old travelling clothes, soft leather boots and a grey tunic, with a dark cloak slung over her shoulders; but to Thorin’s eyes she looked even more beautiful, more blessedly _real,_ than when she had appeared to him in Bree in her white gown and elvish finery. This, he thought, was the Ithilrian he knew: the stern yet smiling travelling healer, with her fierce grey gaze and braided silver hair. _This_ was the woman he had longed for, all those lonely years. 

‘Thorin!’ She stooped before him, her face lighting up with a warm smile. ‘It is so good to finally see you properly, _mellon nîn.’_

He pulled himself to his feet to welcome her, intending to hold himself back and greet her as politely and regally as possible; but instead, he found himself pulled into a fierce embrace. It was entirely unexpected, and perhaps inappropriate, but those thoughts flew from his mind as soon as he realized her arms were around him, her breath was against his cheek, and her hands were wrapping around his broad shoulders. 

It didn’t matter what was appropriate, he thought. What mattered, right then and there, was that she was _here,_ with him; that she was not some spirit or dream or figment of his lonely imagination. Her warm weight was in his arms and he could feel the swift patter of her heart beating against his chest. With an ill-concealed groan he felt his body melt willingly into hers, returning the embrace, as his arms locked around her waist and his hands tangled through her silken hair. He buried his face in her neck, breathing in her scent. She smelled like spiced honey wine, his thoughts supplied lazily: just as sweet, but doubly intoxicating. 

With that thought, he forced himself to relinquish his hold, pulling away from her even as his body fought against him. _No,_ it pleaded silently. But he was having none of it. Straightening up, he placed one hand firmly on her shoulder and squeezed it gently. ‘Welcome, Ithilrian, Silver Lady of Lórien,’ he intoned solemnly. ‘It is good to see you properly at last.’ 

‘Thank you, my lord Thorin,’ she replied softly, pulling back and returning the gesture. Her eyes were glimmering brightly, and she seemed surprisingly breathless. ‘It does my heart good to see you too.’ 

She took a seat at the low-slung table as the same hobbit server from before pattered over, placing a goblet of red wide carefully beside Thorin’s ale, before leaving with a giggle that Thorin decided to pointedly ignore. 

‘I am glad you arrived when you did,’ he said quietly, once he’d gotten his breath back. ‘I was becoming concerned that my message had gone awry.’ 

Ithilrian rolled her eyes. ‘I came as swiftly as I could. Mithrandir only told me of your plans a few days ago. I was still in Imladris.’ 

‘I see.’ Thorin sighed. ‘The wizard makes an… interesting messenger, don’t you think?’ 

‘Indeed,’ smiled Ithilrian, taking a gulp of her wine. Her eyes widened. ‘You know, this really is very good,’ she muttered, eyeing the goblet critically. ‘It might almost stand up to Dorwinion.’ 

Thorin tried, and failed, to suppress a chuckle. ‘I never took you for a wine connoisseur.’ 

‘Good,’ she replied with a smile. ‘For I have no real knowledge of the art. You’d have to speak to the wood elves for that. But this I like the taste of, at least.’ She took another sip. ‘I have not had Shire wine before. I find it most palatable.’ 

‘Hmm.’ Thorin took a swig from his tankard. ‘The beer is quite passable as well.’ 

‘I shall let you be the judge of that. I have no taste for ales,’ Ithilrian replied. ‘But now, shall we have our toast, my lord Thorin?’ She raised her goblet. ‘To the beginning of our quest, _hîr vuin.’_

He raised his tankard. ‘To the beginning of our quest,’ he echoed, smiling fondly and taking a deep gulp. ‘I thank you, Silver Lady, for answering my call. I’m glad to have you at my side once more. You don’t appear to have aged a single day these past ten years,’ he added. 

‘You think so?’ Ithilrian said softly. ‘It is hardly surprising, my lord. I am one of the Elder Folk. But you have aged somewhat, I fear.’ Her grey eyes scanned his face carefully. Thorin felt the intensity of her gaze as she took in the fresh lines scored into his face, and the streaks of grey in his hair. She looked visibly distressed, almost on the verge of panic. ‘Thorin, you look older than you did when we parted,’ she said bluntly. 

‘That’s because I am,’ he replied, amused. ‘I am mortal, remember? We age, Ithilrian. We dwarves are not like your folk. Although I must say, most other people have been less rude about it. I don’t know how it is amongst elves; but we don’t generally go around telling people just how old they look.’

Ithilrian jerked her head back and snorted. It was a very dwarven gesture; one that he had seen many times before in Fili and Kili. He smiled to himself, as she frowned. ‘My lord, I am sorry if I offended you. I just… I have not had to witness mortal ageing for some time. I do not like it. It is a reminder that…’ she trailed off, averting her gaze. She was embarrassed, Thorin realized belatedly. It was a novel thought. He had never noticed her blush before. 

‘It is of no matter,’ he said gruffly, trying to ignore the frantic pounding of his heart. ‘I take no offence from your words. The years in Ered Luin have not been over-kind to me.’

Ithilrian turned her grey gaze back towards him. ‘I know,’ she said softly. ‘I can read it in the lines on your brow, the set of your shoulders. _Goheno nin,_ my friend. Let us speak of lighter things.’ 

‘Indeed,’ nodded Thorin. ‘It will soon be time for us to meet with the others. But I am glad to have a few moments alone with you, Ithilrian.’ He hesitated. Those words were loaded with meaning he had not intended to show. It was as if his tongue had turned traitor, he thought angrily. 

‘Why is that, _hîr vuin?’_ asked Ithilrian softly. 

‘Because I have a plan that requires you,’ he replied quickly. ‘I want you to arrive at this Bag End place at the correct time, alongside the others; while I will arrive a little later, and alone.’ 

Ithilrian raised an eyebrow. ‘Why?’ 

‘Because I want you to act as my eyes and ears,’ he said. ‘I want you to gauge the mood, and the willingness, of our companions for me. Once I arrive, as their leader and King, their behavior will most likely change, to conceal any concerns or doubts they might have.’ 

‘I see,’ Ithilrian nodded. 

‘Do you?’ Thorin smiled, relieved. ‘You are… different from the others, you see. We are not of the same kin; and whatever you might say, I am not your King. You are not bound to me like the dwarves of Erebor. This means I can speak to you in a way I could not do with, say, Dwalin or one of the others.’ 

‘I am aware of that,’ Ithilrian nodded. ‘Sometimes, being a ruler can be a lonely business. Do not fear. I will always be at your service, whenever you have need of me.’ 

Thorin felt his chest tighten at those words, the memory of many cold nights spent alone and in pain tugging at him. He ignored it, focusing instead on the elf-maid in front of him. _She is here,_ he reminded himself. _No more lonely days and empty nights. We have an entire journey ahead of us; to talk, and think, and maybe…_ He cleared his throat. ‘Then you agree to my plan?’

She nodded decisively. ‘Yes.’ 

‘In that case you had better leave soon.’ He glanced out of the window. ‘The hour draws near, and we still have yet to enter Hobbiton.’ 

‘Then I shall go at once,’ replied Ithilrian, standing and inclining her head gracefully to the dwarf king. ‘After the gathering, I will tell you all that I have seen and heard in your absence.’ 

‘Good.’ Thorin nodded, a smile creeping back onto his face as he watched Ithilrian depart. He sat back down, trying to ignore the little flutters inside his chest, as though a host of moths had taken up residence there. It was enough, he thought to himself. It was enough that he should see her again, and that she should smile at him and call him friend. That was all he had asked for. He let out a small groan of satisfaction, leaning back and allowing his head to rest against the wall. For the first time in many years, Thorin Oakenshield’s shoulders did not ache. Despite the burden of responsibility he was about to undertake with his new venture, his heart was singing and he felt something warm stirring within him; something that he had not felt in an age. _Happiness._

~

Outside the inn, Ithilrian strode away, running a hand through her hair and trying not to grin like some lack-witted fool as she navigated the Shire’s meandering paths. 

She had not intended to sweep Thorin into an immediate embrace. But the moment she saw his dear face again, saw his anxious blue eyes and the streaks of silver in his raven hair, she wanted to grab him and hold on tightly, shielding him from the rest of the world. It had been too much to resist; and so, remembering Fili and Kili’s hug lessons, she had thrown her arms around the dwarf king with all the strength she could muster. 

For a moment she had been frightened that he would dislike the gesture. But when she realized he was pressing back against her, and felt the warm weight of his arms around her waist, it was all she could do not to laugh aloud with joy. For he was here, he was real; and she could touch him. She had tucked her face into the crook of his neck and breathed in his musky scent that spoke of warm metal, leather, and pipe smoke. 

When she felt him begin to pull away, she had released him at once. But when she’d had the chance to properly look at him, to take in the signs of age and wear that had stamped themselves upon his features, she felt as if a lead weight had dropped into her stomach. He had looked so much _older_ than she remembered. There was grey streaking his hair, and deep lines in his face. He seemed wearier of the world, with set shoulders that spoke of long years of responsibility and care. It had reminded her that while ten years was a mere blink in the life of an elf, such a span of years took its toll on mortals. _He will die,_ her thoughts had whispered to her, bitter and sharp as an edged blade. _He will die, and there is nothing you can do to save him._

She had bitten down on those dark thoughts, trying to conceal her flush of fear in front of Thorin, talking instead about his plan to have her check on the Company before he arrived. In truth, she did not feel it was really necessary. But she went along with it. She wanted to be with the rest of the company as well, she realized. She needed the sounds of life and laughter around her, to drive away the darkness and pull her back from morbid thoughts. And, as she approached a small, perfectly round green door, whose impeccable paintwork was marred only by a single, glowing, and very familiar rune, she smiled and straightened her own shoulders. It was going to be an interesting night. 

~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whee! Finally getting there, friends! I hope you're all still enjoying reading this as much as I'm enjoying writing it.
> 
> (Poor old Thorin and Ithil. Such a silly pair. For all that she's an elf, Ithil can be terribly unobservant sometimes…!)
> 
> Elvish translation notes: 
> 
> Hîr vuin = my lord  
> Mellon nîn = my friend  
> Goheno nin = forgive me.


	21. An Unexpected Party

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which thirteen dwarves, one elf, one wizard, and an irritable hobbit get together in Bag End, for a long-awaited party…

Ithilrian raised her hand and knocked carefully at the round green door, eyeing the glowing rune with no small amount of trepidation. Her sharp ears twitched almost imperceptibly as she picked up sounds of commotion coming from within the strange small dwelling.

‘…No no no, there’s nobody home!’ an unfamiliar voice was positively whining, becoming louder and clearer as its owner approached the front door. ‘There are far too many dwarves in my dining room as it is!’ Within a moment it was thrown open, and Ithilrian found herself staring down at an irritable hobbit. 

‘In that case, it is fortunate that I am not a dwarf,’ said Ithilrian smoothly, raising an eyebrow at the sight of the small, flabbergasted creature before her. Bilbo Baggins – for surely this had to be him – was staring up at her with an expression of unabashed astonishment. ‘My name is Ithilrian Tinnulenath,’ she continued, introducing herself solemnly, taking a step forwards and doing a sweepingly elegant imitation of the traditional dwarven bow. ‘At your service,’ she added softly. 

‘I…’ the hobbit mouthed like a fish out of water before recovering his manners. ‘Bilbo Baggins, at yours. I do beg your pardon; I thought you were a dwarf.’ 

‘Indeed?’ replied Ithilrian, stooping to step over the threshold, as the door was pushed shut behind her. ‘I believe you are the first person in Middle Earth to make that mistake, Master Baggins. For that I must commend you.’ Her mouth quirked upwards ever so slightly, as she fought down giggles at the sight of the hobbit’s expression.

‘Well, no, I didn’t think you looked like a dwarf, it’s just that there are these dwarves in my pantry, four of them in fact, and they’re quite large, and they’re quite loud, and I don’t quite know what…’ The hobbit began to babble, squinting up at the tall elf-maid in utter bewilderment. ‘Miss… Mistress Tinnulenath, was it? Do you have _any_ idea what’s going on?’ 

‘Just Ithilrian will do, Master Baggins,’ she said gently. ‘And as to your question, I think you’d better ask Mithrandir when he arrives.’ 

‘Mith… who?’ the hobbit began, only to be interrupted by a pair of delighted yells. 

_‘Miss Ithil!!’_

Ithilrian barely had time to brace herself before the full weight of Fili and Kili crashed into her, sending her sprawling against the paneled hallway, while the bewildered hobbit squeaked and jumped out of the way. They both threw their arms around the slender elf-maid, fighting one another for space, all the while grinning widely and laughing fit to burst. 

‘Miss Ithil! We missed you!’ 

‘Welcome back! We knew you’d come, we just knew!’ 

‘You haven’t changed a bit, you know!’

‘We thought you’d be with Uncle by now!’ 

‘Where have you been all this time?’ 

Ithilrian threw back her head and laughed delightedly. The weight of the young dwarves had nearly knocked her over, but she didn’t mind in the slightest. She wrapped her arms tightly around the two princes, leaning forwards into the hug and sighing contentedly. 

‘Fili, and Kili,’ she chuckled, when at last they disengaged long enough for her to breathe. ‘My favourite dwarf princes! Come, let me look at you.’ She dropped to one knee in front of the youngsters, the better to look at them properly. ‘Why Fili!’ she said, her eyes widening. ‘You have a beard now!’ 

‘Aye,’ grinned the golden-haired prince, looking up at her proudly. ‘It’s been a long few years.’

‘And Kili, you’ve grown,’ she added, smiling fondly as she ruffled Kili’s hair. ‘Your hair is even longer than it was the last I saw you.’ 

‘We missed you so much Miss Ithil!’ said Kili, his eyes shining brightly. ‘Uncle did as well. Why didn’t you come back and see us?’ 

‘Forgive me,’ she replied softly, holding the prince’s twin gazes carefully. ‘I’m afraid I was quite ill, for a time. I was under the care of the healers in Imladris.’ The breath was squashed from her body once more as Kili grabbed her around the middle again. 

‘You were sick?’ his voice was muffled, his head pressed into her tunic. ‘Why didn’t you send word? We would have come! You didn’t have to be alone!’ 

‘Get off her, boys,’ came a gruff shout. Dwalin stomped into the hallway, grabbing the youngest prince by his tunic and hauling him bodily off the slender elf. ‘If’n yon lassie has been sick, the last thing she needs is you grabbin’ onto her like a needy dwarfling. Elves are breakable, remember. They’re not tough like us.’ The broad-shouldered warrior glowered up at Ithilrian. ‘I take it you’re well again now, eh?’ 

‘Yes,’ Ithilrian nodded, allowing a slight smile to creep across her face. ‘Else I would not be here, Master Dwalin.’ 

‘Thought as much,’ grunted the dwarf. ‘Bloody elves, always moanin’ about something.’ He glowered up at her, but there was a familiar friendly twinkle hidden deep within that dark gaze. Ithilrian returned it with a wink, which had the unexpected effect of making the scarred warrior blush.

_I’ll have to remember that,_ thought Ithilrian gleefully, as the dwarf stomped off, brushing roughly past Bilbo, who was still standing in the hallway and staring at them all with a combination of wonder, confusion, and frustration. 

‘If I could just get a word in here…’ the hobbit said, straightening the lapels of his patchwork dressing gown. ‘It’s just I’m not sure you’ve come to the right…’ He broke off, scowling angrily as another tremendous ring came from the doorbell. ‘No! Go away and bother somebody else! If this is some clot-head’s idea of a joke,’ he snapped, stamping towards the door, ‘then I can only say that it is in very poor taste!’ 

His angry rant was cut off as he tugged open Bag End’s door, only to have the rest of the Company (minus Thorin, of course) fall face-first onto his doormat in a complaining, struggling, undignified heap. He opened his mouth in astonishment, only to be halted by the sight of the grey wizard. 

‘Gandalf,’ Bilbo breathed. 

Ithilrian smiled. It was so like Mithrandir, not to even warn the poor hobbit that he should be expecting guests. She felt sorry for the poor fellow. He was becoming more and more flustered and agitated: something that only seemed to increase as the dwarves went about the business of sorting out supper. 

‘Excuse me, that’s my chicken! No, not my wine! Put that back! Put _that_ back! Excuse me, that’s a tad… excessive, isn’t it? Have you got a cheese knife?’ 

‘Cheese knife? He eats it by the block!’ Bofur grinned at Bilbo, sauntering past carrying a whole leg of ham. ‘Evening, Miss Ithilrian!’ he added, grinning his wide dimpled smile up at the elf-maid. ‘Mind giving us a hand here?’ 

‘Not at all,’ she replied, stooping to take the ham, ignoring the hobbit’s frantic protests as his pantry was emptied. She wove easily in and out of the twelve dwarves, all of whom were hurrying to and fro carrying various platters filled with goodies, keeping her head ducked so as to avoid hitting anything on the low-slung roof beams. She kept a careful lid on the joy that was bubbling up within her, filling an old hollow cavity in her chest with warmth, as the familiar background hum of twelve hungry dwarves filled the air. It was comforting, she thought. Almost like… like coming home, of sorts. 

‘Mister Gandalf, can I tempt you with a cup of chamomile?’ 

‘Oh, no thank you Dori,’ the wizard replied, politely but firmly as he made his way through the hobbit hole. ‘A little red wine, for me I think.’ 

‘And for me,’ added Ithilrian, unable to suppress a chuckle at the sight of the grey wizard accidentally walking into Bilbo’s chandelier. ‘Mithrandir, you’ve grown clumsy,’ she added playfully, smiling as she watched him trying to keep track of the twelve dwarves by counting them off on his fingers.

‘We appear to be one dwarf short,’ muttered Gandalf, shooting her an expectant glance. 

‘He is late, is all. He travelled north, to a meeting of our kin. He will come.’ Dwalin answered for her. Ithilrian nodded in agreement, ignoring Gandalf’s raised eyebrows in favour of the food-laden table. 

It was a good thing, Ithilrian thought, that she had spent time with dwarves before. She’d already had a chance to become used to their table manners. Even so, the exuberance with which the Company set to was almost terrifying. Even Gandalf took part, passing along dishes and avoiding the worst of the flying food. Ithilrian sat at the end of the table near Bofur, ducking any food thrown in her direction with graceful ease; even retaliating at one point; after a particularly close call with a boiled egg thrown by a mischievous Kili. _If only my mother could see me now,_ she thought wryly, chuckling as her well-aimed tomato struck Kili squarely on the nose, to the delight of his older brother. _I don’t know whether she’d be amused or horrified. Probably both._ She glanced backwards at Bilbo, who hadn’t sat down with the others. He was still be hovering uncomfortably in the hall. _Poor hobbit,_ her thoughts added. _He has no idea what he’s let himself in for._

~

Bilbo Baggins shook his head. Never, in all his days, had he entertained such rude and rowdy guests. Although having said that, he was hardly the one doing the entertaining, as the dwarves seemed content to laugh and shout amongst themselves for the most part, talking over him as though he was no more than a piece of furniture. 

He gazed forlornly at his stricken pantry. Nearly all the food in the house had been cleaned out; and by the sound of it so had his wine and ale too. Dwarves, it seemed, could eat almost as much as hobbits in one sitting. He was sure he’d even seen the elf-maid helping herself gleefully to his freshly baked seedcakes, daintily sipping wine and ducking pieces of flying food as though it was the most normal thing in the world.

He could only assume that they were all here for this wretched adventure that Gandalf had spoke of before; the one he thought he had so cleverly avoided. Now, it seemed that the blasted thing had come right into his own home, if the muddy tracks of dwarven boots, and the pile of weapons in the hallway, were anything to go by.

‘Dwarves, elves, and wizards!’ he muttered under his breath. It was almost a shame, he thought; under normal circumstances, he’d be delighted to have an elf to tea. He had long been fascinated by elvish history and culture, although he had never met one before. But what this smiling elf-maid was doing in the company of twelve rowdy dwarves he could not guess; and what Gandalf was planning with all of them, he did not like to think. He only knew that he wanted no part in it. 

Things only got worse once supper had ended. He had pulled Gandalf aside briefly, to try and wrangle some answers out of the wizard once and for all; only to be interrupted by one of the younger dwarves, asking with an air of bashful politeness that was completely incongruous with his behavior over dinner, what he should do with his plate... 

_‘Blunt the knives, bend the forks,_  
_Smash the bottles and burn the corks,_  
_Chip the glasses and crack the plates,  
_ _That’s what Bilbo Baggins hates!’_

The song was the catalyst for yet more chaos. Bilbo scurried hither and thither, squawking muffled protests as the dwarves had hurled his best china and silverware around as if they hadn’t a care in the world. Even Gandalf had chuckled approvingly, as plates and cups whizzed past under his nose. The elf-maid also stood to one side, laughing in approval and occasionally even tossing a stray piece of cutlery to one of the younger dwarves – Fili, or was it Kili? He didn’t know, and he decided that he didn’t care. All that mattered was getting this nightmarish evening over with. It was without a doubt proving to be the most awkward Wednesday he had ever experienced. 

However, he was startled at the speed with which the dwarves fell silent after their song was done, when a loud knock sounded once more at his door. Every one of them glanced between themselves, their laughter fading, to be replaced with a variety of apprehensive looks. Even the elf paused, pointed ears twitching slightly, as she looked towards the door with an unreadable expression in her grey eyes. 

‘He’s here,’ murmured Gandalf. 

‘He… he who?’ said Bilbo, more to himself than anybody else, as the wizard ignored him entirely and went to open the door himself. The rest of the dwarves crowded behind him, seemingly eager to greet the latest guest, while simultaneously still hanging back awkwardly. He glanced up at the elf-maid, only to find that she was observing the dwarves carefully, her face settling into smooth impassivity. She glanced at him, and raised one elegant eyebrow questioningly as Bag End’s door creaked open once more.

‘Gandalf,’ said a deep, resonant voice. ‘I thought you said this place would be easy to find. I lost my way, twice.’ Another dwarf had stepped over the threshold. But even to Bilbo’s untrained eyes, this dwarf seemed different to the rest. He was taller and broader across the shoulders, with an impressive fur coat and silver-streaked mane of dark hair. His voice was low, gruff, and commanding. ‘I wouldn’t have found it at all if it hadn’t been for that mark on the door.’

That jolted Bilbo back to his senses. ‘Mark? There’s no mark on that door, it was painted a week ago!’ he said indignantly. 

‘There is a mark, I put it there myself,’ replied Gandalf, pushing the door closed and glaring at Bilbo. _Oh, well that explains a lot then,_ thought Bilbo furiously, glaring back up at the grey wizard. He opened his mouth to demand to know exactly _why_ Gandalf had done such a thing, when he was interrupted once more. 

‘Bilbo Baggins, allow me to introduce the leader of our company: Thorin Oakenshield,’ said Gandalf, dipping his head respectfully to the most recent guest. Bilbo looked up, and swallowed hard, feeling thoroughly intimidated. Yes, he had been right about this dwarf being different to the others. While the rest of them had been rowdy and merry, it was hard to imagine this one cracking a smile, or even laughing. He seemed driven by an inner fire. His eyes _burned._

‘So, this is the hobbit,’ said the new dwarf, Thorin, slowly. He stepped forwards, his eyes narrowed, assessing, calculating. ‘Tell me Master Baggins, have you done much fighting?’ 

‘What?’ Bilbo stuttered. 

‘Axe or sword?’ continued Thorin, pacing around. ‘What’s your weapon of choice?’ 

Bilbo felt an absurd surge of wounded pride, and found himself puffing up indignantly. ‘Well, I do happen to have some skill at conkers, if you must know. But I fail to see why that’s relevant…’ 

‘I thought as much,’ grunted Thorin, dismissing him with a glare. ‘He looks more like a grocer than a burglar.’ He stalked off, the rest of the dwarves following, leaving Bilbo feeling thoroughly confused and offended in equal parts. 

He glanced up at Gandalf and the elf-maid. They were exchanging loaded glances. The elf’s mask of impassivity seemed to drop for a moment, and he saw concern furrowing her brow. Gandalf seemed to be reassuring her; because it was only a moment before her countenance smoothed over once more, and she turned swiftly on her heel to follow the rest of the dwarves. Gandalf, in turn, sighed and leaned heavily on a roof beam, glancing at Bilbo wearily. 

‘Gandalf… are you all right?’ asked Bilbo hesitantly. 

‘Hmm?’ The wizard smiled down at him benevolently. ‘Yes my dear Bilbo, I’m quite all right. Come along. There is much to be discussed, now that Thorin has finally arrived.’ He beckoned Bilbo back towards the dining room. Bilbo groaned internally. _Not more dwarvish nonsense,_ he thought miserably. _Maybe now I’ll finally find out what on Middle Earth they’re all doing in my house…_

~ 

Ithilrian was concerned. 

She barely listened to the discussion that followed among the dwarves, once Thorin had been settled with a bowl of soup and a mug of ale. She knew that Thorin had not been lost; that he had simply been waiting, to give her a chance to observe their company. Now that he was here, she realized why. 

The change in the dwarves had been startling. Before Thorin’s arrival, they had been even merrier and more boisterous than she remembered. The food fight had been proof enough of that. But as soon as Thorin had knocked at the door, all laughter had been stilled, and even his nephews had looked suddenly apprehensive, as if they had been caught doing something wrong.

_What has happened?_ She wondered silently. A change had come over Thorin. When she’d met him alone, he’d smiled at her, even laughed, despite the weariness that seemed to press upon him. Now, he was being stern and severe, his voice resonant with authority. It would seem that certain things had changed in ten years. Her attention drifted back to the table as Gloin’s thick accent cut across the rest of the muttering dwarves.

‘Oin has read the portents, and the portents say it is time,’ the red-bearded dwarf insisted. 

‘Aye. Ravens have been seen flying back to the mountain, as it was foretold,’ said Oin. The old healer seemed to have grown both louder and deafer, thought Ithilrian fondly. But he was still as blunt and forthright as ever. ‘When the birds of yore return to Erebor, the reign of the beast will end,’ he added slowly. 

‘What beast?’ Bilbo’s voice sounded very high and uncertain.

‘Oh, that would be a reference to Smaug the Terrible,’ replied Bofur casually. ‘Chiefest and greatest calamity of our age. Airborne fire-breather: teeth like razors, claws like meat-hooks, extremely fond of precious metals…’

‘Yes, I know what a dragon is, thank you,’ interrupted Bilbo tartly. 

_Do you really?_ thought Ithilrian. She had never encountered one herself; but she recalled well the tales of Glaurung Father of Dragons, slain eventually by the hand of Túrin Turambar; and of Ancalagon the Black, first and greatest of the winged drakes, whose fall had laid the fortress of Thangorodrim to waste. The cruelty and power of Morgoth’s most fearsome servants was legend. The very idea of confronting one of these fire-breathing monstrosities, let alone destroying it, sent a shudder of fear down her spine. _Why on earth did I agree to come on this quest again?_ She thought bitterly. 

As if reading her thoughts, Thorin’s eyes found hers. Their rich blue colour had darkened, reflecting the flickering candle flames, making it appear as though his eyes were literally glowing with the fires of vengeance. 

_Oh yes,_ she thought weakly, as her stomach did a backflip. _That’s why._

~

The meeting was over. Bilbo Baggins, much everybody’s disappointment, had politely but firmly declined to take part in their quest. He had offered the dwarves lodgings in his home for the night, until they could begin their journey the following day. Even Gandalf had not been able to persuade Bilbo to change his mind, Ithilrian noted. So she was surprised when, with an awkward clearing of his throat, the hobbit came up to have a word with her. 

‘Um, hello,’ he stuttered. ‘I didn’t really get the chance to, er, talk to you earlier. Too much throwing of food, and dishes, and so forth.’ He winced slightly, as though the memory alone caused him pain. 

_‘Mae g’ovannen,’_ replied Ithilrian gently. ‘Many thanks for your hospitality, Master Baggins. I… feel the urge to apologize for the behavior of my companions. Their manners are perhaps a little rough, but they are good dwarves at heart.’ 

‘Hmm,’ nodded Bilbo. ‘I’m sure that they are, Miss…?’ 

‘Ithilrian,’ she reminded him. ‘No titles, please. I left those behind long ago.’ 

‘I see,’ the hobbit nodded. ‘I… well. This is going to sound foolish to you, but I have never met an elf before. Always wanted to, you know. But I must say I’ve never even set foot outside the Shire.’ He shifted his weight uncomfortably. ‘Why on earth Gandalf thought I’d be suitable for this quest, I’ve no idea,’ he muttered. 

Ithilrian smiled, bending down on one knee so as to look at the hobbit eye to eye. ‘I find it is best never to try and guess what Mithrandir is up to,’ she confided quietly. ‘He has his reasons, although he often refuses to share them. Are you quite certain that you won’t be joining us?’ 

‘Oh yes, quite certain,’ blustered Bilbo quickly. Ithilrian nodded, turning her head slightly as her sharp ears picked up a quiet conversation between Thorin and Balin in the next room. She smiled at Bilbo, allowing the hobbit to talk, all the while continuing to eavesdrop on the King. 

_‘I would take each and every one of these dwarves over an army from the Iron Hills,’_ Thorin was saying. _‘For when I called, they answered. Loyalty, honour, a willing heart: I can ask no more than that.’_

Those words sent guilt lancing into Ithilrian’s heart. They were unsettlingly similar to what she had told Thorin she’d seen inside him, all those years ago. Had he taken her words so seriously? Had he been sitting and brooding over them for the last ten years? She fervently hoped not. She turned her attention away from the dwarves, and back to the hobbit in front of her. 

‘…So you see, I’d much rather sit and listen to tales of adventure from my armchair than actively participate in them.’ Bilbo was still chatting enthusiastically. She glanced down at him and allowed a slow, warm smile to spread over her face. He hesitated, looking up at her with a strangely wistful look in his eyes. ‘It’s a pity,’ he added quietly. ‘I’d dearly love to hear some of your tales, Miss Ithilrian. I’ve heard that elvish stories and songs are the best.’ 

Ithilrian laughed softly. ‘I wish I had the time to tell you some, Master Baggins. However, the hour grows late. I believe it is time we all turned in for the night. We have long journey ahead of us, after all.’ 

‘Ah? Oh well yes, of course.’ Bilbo hummed, glancing around. ‘There should be more than enough room if I just… please, will you excuse me just a moment?’ He trundled off, muttering to himself about beds and mattresses and blankets and pillows. Ithilrian smiled and shook her head pityingly. A strange, yet remarkably likeable creature, she thought. It was a pity he would not be joining them. 

‘Ithilrian.’ A low voice sounded behind her. She did not have to turn to know it belonged to the King Under the Mountain. 

‘Thorin,’ she replied softly.

‘Come and speak with me later,’ he murmured, before moving away. 

‘I shall, my lord,’ she nodded, ignoring the shiver his voice sent down her spine, and the lingering scent of pipe smoke. 

‘Miss Ithilrian?’ Bilbo was back. ‘I’ve set aside a guest room for you. Most of the dwarves will have to sleep in the living room, as I’ve not got nearly enough bedrooms for you all…’ 

Ithilrian raised her eyebrows questioningly. ‘I do not require special treatment,’ she replied. 

‘No no, of course, it’s just…’ the hobbit shifted from foot to foot. ‘You’re female,’ he blurted out eventually. ‘And they’re all… not.’ 

‘I see,’ nodded Ithilrian, doing her best to suppress a surprised chuckle. ‘You are most astute in your observation, and I thank you for your consideration. You’re a kind and generous host.’ 

‘Oh well,’ Bilbo muttered, apparently having not noticed her laughter. ‘I’ve let Thorin have the best bedroom, as he is some sort of King after all, apparently – and then there’s Gandalf, of course; but then there’s one room left, which I’ve set aside for you. There’s hot water ready, and clean sheets,’ he added. 

_‘Ni lassui,’_ said Ithilrian, leaning forwards to place a hand upon his shoulder. ‘My thanks, Master Baggins. I shall turn in presently. But if you have no objection, I would like to walk outside for a few minutes. I feel a desire to look upon the stars.’

‘Of course!’ nodded Bilbo. ‘You can go into the garden, if you wish. I’ll leave the back door open for you. Just remember to latch it when you’re done.’ 

~

The night air was cool and calm. Ithilrian stretched out upon the well-kept lawn, enjoying the gentle tickle of grass on the back of her neck. She blinked slowly, contentedly, gazing up at the stars. She was waiting for the dwarves to sort out their sleeping arrangements and settle down, so that she could speak with Thorin privately. 

_‘Far over the misty mountains cold,_  
_To dungeons deep, and caverns old,_  
_We must away, ere break of day,  
_ _To find our long-forgotten gold…’_

The deep, rich sound of the dwarves’ song rolled through Bag End in an inexorable wave, sending a shiver through Ithilrian that had nothing to do with the cold. She could easily distinguish the sound of Thorin’s singing among the other dwarven voices. Only he had a voice as rich as molten gold; as deep as the darkness between the stars; as intoxicating as the sweetest of honey wines… 

Eventually, her ears told her that everybody seemed to have settled down, bar the odd mutter and grumble. She pulled herself upright and stepped quietly back towards Bag End; but instead of making for the door, she trod silently along the back garden until she reached a small, round window. She listened intently. A low, baritone humming told her she’d found the right one. 

She tapped on the glass lightly, leaning back when the window was pushed cautiously open. 

‘Thorin,’ she breathed, as an achingly familiar head appeared, silhouetted against the candlelight flickering within.

‘Ithilrian,’ he whispered in reply. ‘I wondered where you had vanished to.’ 

‘I came outside to look at the stars,’ she replied. ‘And to wait to speak with you until you were alone.’ 

‘I see,’ Thorin nodded. ‘Well done. Now tell me, was I right to send you in before me? How fares the rest of my Company?’ 

Ithilrian frowned. ‘Yes, _hîr vuin,_ I believe you were right. It is a strange thing. Before you arrived, there was much merriment among the others; chatter, laughter, even a food fight.’ She broke off and wrinkled her nose. ‘That was certainly an interesting experience. But when you arrived… the feeling within the room changed. Everyone became suddenly far more serious; far more solemn.’ 

Thorin nodded slowly. ‘It is as I expected.’

‘Is it?’ Ithilrian asked softly. ‘My lord Thorin, please tell me what is going on.’ 

Thorin shrugged. ‘During the last few years, I have forced myself to become a proper leader of my people. I am a figure of authority, and responsibility. I have their respect; but I also have a position to maintain.’ He paused, running a large hand distractedly though his hair. ‘I may have… distanced myself from them all a little,’ he admitted slowly. ‘It is hard for them to see me as both a King and leader, if they also see me as too much of a friend. But,’ he added, ‘I am glad to hear that they are in good spirits. It's good to know they’re all well; even if they choose not to show it in front of me.’ 

‘Oh, Thorin,’ murmured Ithilrian sadly. ‘Thorin, you do not need to avoid their friendship to earn their respect!’ She bent towards the dwarf king, trying to resist an overpowering urge to run her fingers through his silver-streaked hair, to cup his face in her hands and tell him everything would be all right. Instead, she settled for simply leaning against the windowsill and bowing her head. 

‘They are still my friends,’ Thorin muttered. ‘But they are also my followers. I am their King. You said as much, many years ago.’ 

‘I did,’ whispered Ithilrian. ‘But I never meant you to take so much upon yourself. I can see the weariness within you, Thorin; it hangs upon your very soul. You must be careful, _hîr vuin._ We face a long and dangerous road ahead.’ 

‘We do,’ replied Thorin. ‘Yet would you believe me if I told you that my heart is lighter now than it has been for a long time?’ He sighed. ‘For years, I have taken responsibility for running our colonies in both Ered Luin and the Blue Mountains. It has been hard work; but we have been rewarded. Our settlements are solid. My people now have lives of peace, and plenty. No one is begging in the wilderness, or starving in the streets. I call that a victory, even if it comes with a price.’ He passed a hand over his brow, looking up at Ithilrian with eyes that reflected the light of the silver moon that hung overhead. ‘I feel… guilty,’ he muttered. ‘To make this journey, I had to abandon my position, my responsibilities to the colonies. But I feel… free. Free in a way I have not felt since our last journey together.’ 

‘You should not feel guilty for wishing for freedom,’ replied Ithilrian gently. 

‘I know. Nevertheless, it is hard for me,’ said Thorin. ‘Our path may yet be fraught with perils; but strange as it may sound, I feel happier than I have in months.’ 

‘Then that is a good thing,’ replied Ithilrian, her eyes twinkling. ‘I in turn must admit to feeling much the same thing. The open road is calling to us both, Thorin. We would be wise to heed it.’ She tilted her head to one side, admiring the shimmer of moonlight in Thorin’s raven-dark hair, before shaking herself to her senses once more. ‘Come, _hîr vuin,’_ she added. ‘The hour is growing late. We have a long journey ahead of us.’ 

‘We do,’ agreed Thorin. He smiled fondly at the elf-maid. ‘Get some sleep. You’ll need it.’ 

Ithilrian allowed a small chuckle to escape her lips. ‘Your wish is my command, _veleth nîn.’_

Thorin snorted. ‘That’s the second time you’ve called me that. One day, I’ll ask you what it means.’ 

Ithilrian smiled. ‘One day, I may tell you.’ She dipped her head in respectful farewell before backing away from the window and disappearing from Thorin’s sight. She let herself quietly back into Bag End, making sure she latched the door behind her, before walking silently along the polished hallway towards the room that Bilbo had kindly set aside for her. She tugged off her outer garments, slipping between the clean sheets with a sigh, smiling as she closed her eyes. From the best bedroom next door, she could still hear the sound of a low, gentle voice, humming softly. 

_‘Far over the misty mountains grim,_  
_To dungeons deep, and caverns dim,_  
_We must away, ere break of day,  
_ _To win our harps and gold from him…’_

~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another long chapter folks! I hope this one's worked out okay. I tried to keep a fair few elements of the original party, while adding in a few of my own… 
> 
> Elvish translation notes:
> 
> Hîr vuin = my lord  
> Mellon nîn = my friend  
> Mae g’ovannen = well met  
> Ni lassui = thank you  
> Veleth nîn = my love.


	22. Into the Wilds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a great quest gets underway.

Dawn had broken, and the Company of Thorin Oakenshield had departed from Bag End. The hobbit, as far as Ithilrian could tell, had remained fast asleep as the thirteen dwarves had gathered their packs and strapped on their weapons. They would have made a strange sight, had any hobbit been awake to observe them, trudging though the early morning mists as they wove their way slowly though Hobbiton’s narrow grassy lanes. They were headed back to Bywater, to collect the ponies they’d left stabled at the Green Dragon Inn. There were several grumbles among the company about the early start, especially from Nori and Bofur, who’d taken particular advantage of Bilbo’s excellent ale casks; but on the whole, the mood was relatively light. The only thing causing contention was the subject of their lost burglar. 

‘Really, I don’t think you should be so quick to write him off,’ Gandalf was saying sternly. ‘Hobbits are a constant source of surprise to many folk. He has more to offer than any of you know, including himself.’ 

‘But we’re not the ones who wrote him off,’ Dori pointed out. ‘He said it himself. You chose the wrong hobbit.’ He winced slightly at the thunderous look Gandalf directed at him for that remark. 

‘My choices are not subject for discussion,’ the grey wizard snapped. ‘I had many reasons for naming Bilbo Baggins as the fifteenth member of this company: and one of them is his great capacity to surprise. Indeed, I will lay a wager with anyone who cares to take it, that before the sun has passed noon, he will have changed his mind and joined us.’ 

‘You seem very confident,’ said Fili, looking up at the wizard questioningly. ‘What makes you so certain?’ 

The wizard raised his impressive eyebrows. ‘I am not _certain,_ Master Fili. But I have my suspicions.’ He glowered at the rest of the company. ‘Well? Will anybody take that wager? Or do some of you have a little faith in my judgment?’ 

‘I’ll take your wager,’ grunted Dwalin. ‘That wee creature could never survive in the wilds alone. He’d be a fool to leave his comfy home, to wander the world with a these vagabonds.’ 

‘Oh, I dunno,’ replied Bofur thoughtfully. ‘I kinda liked him. I thought he had a bit of spirit.’ 

‘Spirit?’ said Gloin. ‘Is that what you call it, when he dropped down in a dead faint at the mere thought of the dragon?’ The red-bearded dwarf huffed loudly. ‘I’m with Dwalin on this.’ 

Gandalf shook his head irritably as the rest of the company joined in on their discussion, trading wagers back and forth as they approached the inn. He glanced over at Ithilrian, to find her watching the rest of the company with an aloof, amused expression. 

‘What about you, Ithilrian?’ Gandalf asked, while they waited for their ponies to be led from the stables by a bemused hobbit lad, who was positively wilting under Thorin’s impatient glare. 

‘Me?’ she replied. ‘I do not know, Mithrandir. But I hope you are right. Last night he asked me about elvish songs, and tales. He seemed… strangely eager, yet shy. I could not quite make him out.’ 

‘Hmm.’ The wizard nodded approvingly. ‘Well, that sounds promising. With any luck, his Took side will win out over the reluctant Baggins in him.’ 

‘Come on,’ came Thorin’s gruff bellow. ‘It’s time we were moving.’ He hoisted himself onto his pony, indicating with a glare that everyone else should do the same. Ithilrian sighed, and patted Siptah’s neck in greeting. The grey horse whinnied softly in reply, nuzzling her soft nose into Ithilrian’s neck. She chuckled, and gave said nose a fond pat before leaping lightly into the saddle. 

They had ridden for only a couple of hours, and the sun was beginning to climb high in the sky, when Ithilrian’s sharp ears caught a faint cry. 

_‘Wait!’_

She paused, reigning in Siptah, glancing back along the path they’d come.

‘Miss Ithil?’ Fili said, halting his pony beside her. ‘What is it?’ 

Ithilrian smiled. Her keen eyes were able to easily pick out the far-off figure of one small, agitated hobbit, hurrying behind them as fast as his furry feet would carry him. An overstuffed pack was bouncing on his back, and he was brandishing Balin’s contract like a banner. ‘It appears Dwalin is about to lose his wager,’ she murmured. 

‘Really?’ Fili’s eyes lit up, and he scanned the woods behind them eagerly. ‘How do you know? I can’t see a thing.’

‘That is because you are a dwarf, and I am an elf,’ she replied, smiling at him fondly. ‘However, if you are still planning to wager against Dwalin,’ she added quietly, ‘then I suggest you do it swiftly.’ 

Fili grinned, and urged his pony forwards. Ithilrian chucked to herself as she heard the young prince loudly placing a bet against Dwalin and Gloin about their burglar’s imminent arrival. Ithilrian allowed Siptah to walk on serenely, only giving Fili the briefest wink as she passed. 

Sure enough, it wasn’t long before the dwarves noticed the arrival of one small, out of breath, but beaming hobbit. ‘I signed it!’ he called, waving the contract at Balin. 

‘Well, that all seems to be in order,’ the old dwarf nodded, a twinkle in his eye as he looked appraisingly down at Bilbo. ‘Welcome, Master Baggins, to the Company of Thorin Oakenshield.’ 

‘Give him a pony,’ came a gruff instruction from the head of the column. Thorin had halted to observe his new burglar’s arrival, before nodding imperceptibly and turning his mount away. Ithilrian noticed that his broad shoulders seemed hunched. Something was weighing on the dwarf king’s mind.

While the rest of the company busied themselves hoisting a reluctant Bilbo onto a pony, and grumblingly settling their earlier wagers, Ithilrian allowed Siptah to overtake the rest of the group until she was level with Thorin. She permitted herself a brief sideways glance. The dwarf king was riding in a sullen silence, blue eyes narrowed fiercely as he scanned the road ahead. 

‘Thorin,’ she said softly. ‘What is wrong?’ 

‘Nothing,’ the dwarf replied shortly. ‘I am well, Miss Ithilrian. Do not trouble yourself on my account.’ 

Ithilrian arched one disapproving eyebrow. ‘Thorin,’ she murmured reproachfully. ‘You may try to deceive the others as much as you choose; but do not take me for a fool. I know that look. Something is amiss; and if you will not discuss it now, I shall only ask you again later.’ 

Thorin shot her a sideways glance that was half amused, and half frustrated. ‘Since when did you learn to read me so well?’ he muttered. 

‘Since I took it upon myself to care for you and this feckless company of dwarves,’ she murmured in reply, feeling a familiar flutter in her chest at the rumble of his deep, resonant voice. 

‘Hmpf.’ Thorin snorted lightly. ‘You make your point well, as usual.’ He glanced over his shoulder. The others were riding some distance behind them: far enough away not to hear a whisper but close enough to overhear a casual conversation. ‘I have… misgivings about our burglar,’ he muttered. 

‘Why is that?’ she replied. 

‘He is… small. Soft. Unused to a life on the road, in the wilds.’ Thorin’s blue eyes stared determinedly forwards. ‘You heard him as well as I. He cannot ride, or hunt, or fight. He is defenseless. I do not know what Gandalf was thinking.’ 

‘I must admit, his choice was unusual,’ said Ithilrian quietly. ‘But the wizard must have his reasons.’

Thorin growled under his breath. ‘It is another life in my hands,’ he muttered. ‘Another soul that is under my protection. As leader, I am charged with the responsibility for this company; and now, I must watch over a hobbit who can neither fight nor fend for himself.’ He glowered at the passing countryside as if he would set the very woods aflame with his gaze. 

‘Is that what this is about? You fear for his safety?’ Ithilrian hesitated, before leaning over and resting one hand briefly on the dwarf’s thick forearm. ‘I told you before; you assume too much upon yourself, hîr vuin. Strong as your shoulders are, they can only take so much weight.’ She sighed. ‘If I tell you that I shall keep a personal eye on our new burglar, will it lessen your burden slightly?’ 

Thorin glanced sideways at her, surprise blooming in his blue eyes. ‘You would do that?’ 

Ithilrian nodded. ‘If it eases your heart, I would do anything.’ The words were out before she had a chance to bite them back. _Fool! Don’t say anything more!_ Her inner thought screamed. She felt a flush climbing into her cheeks. Luckily, Thorin appeared not to have noticed. His eyes were downcast, his forehead furrowed in thought.

‘Very well,’ he said eventually. ‘So long as it is not too much to ask. I admit, my mind will be less troubled to know that our vulnerable new companion will not be without protection.’ 

‘It it was too much to ask, I would not have suggested it.’ Ithilrian shook her head. ‘Stubborn dwarf.’ 

Thorin snorted in response. ‘Stubborn elf.’ 

‘Really?’ Ithilrian allowed a small smile to creep over her face. ‘I do not believe that is so, my lord Thorin. Not when compared with dwarves, at any rate.’ 

‘You think?’ Thorin was looking up at her, and it was with a surge of relief that Ithilrian saw the faint glimmer of a smile. ‘Not stubborn, says the elf that wanted to travel with a company of dwarves, just because she was lonely. Not stubborn, says the elf that insists on sharing the burden of a dwarf king’s thoughts, just to lighten the weight upon his shoulders. Not stubborn, says the elf who will not leave said dwarf king alone while he’s worrying about something, until he’s shared it. Need I continue?’ 

‘Hmm.’ Ithilrian looked away from that sparkling blue gaze, trying not to laugh. ‘I suppose when you put it like that, I do sound faintly ridiculous.’ 

‘Ridiculous?’ Thorin shook his head. ‘No. I do not find it so.’ 

Ithilrian glanced back at him, and was surprised to find all trace of mirth had vanished from Thorin’s eyes. In its place was an expression of intense emotion: something new and unfamiliar that she could not name. 

‘Ithilrian,’ he said quietly. ‘I am glad for your stubbornness. You help to ease the burden of responsibility that weighs heavily upon me these days.’

‘I… am only trying to help.’ Ithilrian swallowed hard against the sudden tightness in her throat. ‘I said I was at your service, did I not?’ 

‘You did,’ Thorin acknowledged. ‘And not for the first time, I find that I am indebted to you.’ He paused, and then his voice grew sterner, more commanding. ‘We will ride on until dusk,’ he added. ‘Then perhaps, Miss Ithilrian, your scouting services might prove useful, to locate a place in which to make camp.’ 

Ithilrian nodded. She did not need to turn around to know that a pair of dwaves – Balin and Dwalin, she suspected – had urged their ponies forward so that they were now riding directly behind the king, making further murmured conversation impossible. ‘As you wish,’ she replied simply. 

~

It was going to be a long road, thought Thorin irritably. While the ponies were definitely more practical than walking, they were hardly much faster. Spring was turning to summer, and all around the travelling company were rolling fields of lush grasses, forests bursting with greenery and life, and wildflowers popping up here and there among even the craggiest of rocky outcrops. It would have been beautiful, had he been in any mood to acknowledge it.

Instead, he rode at the head of the column, mind constantly abuzz with thoughts as to which route to go next, the safest paths to take, where to camp, how long until they could replenish their supplies… all the sorts of things a conscientious leader needed to take into account. And while he was more than capable of worrying about such things on his own, a small part of him would be breathless with relief whenever Ithilrian rode beside him, to discuss what she could see of the lands ahead, or how their various packages of food were lasting. He spoke with her carefully and seriously, always making sure he showed no outward sign of the warmth that coursed through his bones whenever she was near. 

Gandalf was being of some help too, he admitted grudgingly. The wandering wizard seemed to know the western lands rather well, and was doing a fair job of pointing out the easiest routes for the ponies, as well as some sheltered camp spots. However, the wizard also seemed to have developed the habit of glancing pointedly between Thorin and Ithilrian whenever they were conversing, with an irritatingly smug twinkle in his eyes. Thorin didn’t know what he was implying; but he was damned if he was going to actually ask the wizard, as Gandalf would no doubt give him an innocent look, accompanied by a _‘my dear Thorin, whatever do you mean?’_ So he decided to ignore it, as Ithilrian was also no doubt doing: concentrating instead on the road ahead, and ignoring all smirks and signs of lingering mirth from a certain Grey Wizard. 

~

They had chosen to make camp amongst a high rocky outcrop, which was sheltered from the wind and provided good grazing for the ponies. Thorin was leaning quietly against a rocky outcrop, keeping watch. The sun had long set, and the company was sleeping. 

At least, most of the company. Thorin watched with a glimmer of amusement as Bilbo pulled himself up off his bedroll for the fourth time that night, glaring exasperatedly at a snoring Gloin, before trundling over to his pony. Thorin heard him offer her an apple, and mutter something about it being _their little secret._ At least, thought Thorin, Bilbo Baggins seemed to be adapting surprisingly well to life on the road so far. 

A low, mournful howl rent the air, causing the hobbit to jump with fright, and causing Thorin to re-assess his thoughts about the soft creature’s adaptability. 

‘What was that?’ Bilbo asked. 

Kili glanced around from his spot by the fire. ‘Orcs,’ he muttered. 

‘Orcs?’ replied Bilbo, shaken.

Thorin’s eyes snapped wide open, glancing around watchfully before returning to observe the hobbit positively skip back towards the campfire’s reassuring warmth.

‘Throat-cutters,’ added Fili. ‘There’ll be dozens of them out there. The lowlands are crawling with them.’ 

Kili nodded. ‘They strike in the wee small hours when everyone’s asleep. Quick and quiet, no screams: just lots of blood.’

Thorin felt anger rising within him. His nephew’s teasing of the hobbit was harmless; but rage still burned within him: rage against the orcs, against everything that had taken something from him over the long years since his exile began.

‘You think that’s funny?’ he snapped. ‘You think a night raid by orcs is a joke?’

‘We didn’t mean anything by it,’ mumbled Kili, looking forlorn. 

‘No, you didn’t,’ muttered Thorin, striding away, brushing past the bewildered hobbit. ‘You know nothing of the world.’ He found his feet taking him towards the edge of the rocky precipice, where the tall silent shadow of Ithilrian was standing, gazing out over the mist-shrouded lowlands. 

‘Don’t mind him laddie,’ he heard Balin saying to the confused Bilbo, his voice as calm and reassuring as ever. ‘Thorin has more cause than most to hate orcs.’ 

Thorin came to a halt beside the slender elf-woman, closing his eyes with a low groan as behind him, he heard Balin launch into an account of the Battle of Azanulbizar. Memories surged within him. The shrieks of the orcs, the groans of the wounded, the fury of his soldiers, as wave after wave of goblins and orcs broke against the dwarven lines. It had been a brutal and bloody battle; one he spoke of seldom, and then only with a shudder. For it had been on that fateful day that he had seen his grandfather beheaded, and his father had vanished. That day, Thorin had been forced to step up; to become a leader to his people, despite his tender years; to become the King they had so sorely needed in that moment. 

‘Thorin.’ 

He found himself pulled from memories of blood and despair by a soft voice. But he could not bring himself to open his eyes, until a soft but firm hand took hold of his shoulder, squeezing it gently. He swallowed hard, and looked up into a deep pair of grey eyes so old and full of memory they almost made him feel like a dwarfling again. 

‘Ithilrian,’ he murmured. 

There were no more words that needed to be said. Thorin allowed the warm weight of the elf’s slender hand to anchor him, drawing his thoughts away from grief and rage and pain. Balin’s voice sounded a long way off. As if through a sleep haze, Thorin listened to the old dwarf’s account of how he, Thorin, had defeated Azog the Defiler: how he’d hacked off his arm and sent him mewling back into the pits of Khazad-Dûm. On Balin’s lips, the deed sounded brave and courageous; but the words fell hollowly on Thorin’s ears. So much time had passed since then. The fires of vengeance still burned within him, but after so long they were more like banked coals in the pit of his gut: low and smoldering, but still there. 

‘…And I thought to myself then, there is one who I could follow. There is one I could call King.’ 

Balin’s voice faltered. Thorin could feel many gazes upon his back. He drew in a deep, steadying breath, flicking a glance of gratitude up at Ithilrian, before shrugging off her hand and turning to face his staring company. Many had risen to their feet. He dipped his head slightly in silent acknowledgement of their respect. 

‘The pale orc.’ Bilbo’s voice sounded very small in the darkness. ‘What happened to him?’ 

‘He slunk back into the hole whence he came,’ replied Thorin, feeling harsh bitterness grating through his voice. ‘That filth died from his wounds long ago.’ He stalked slowly away, to avoid the eyes that were turned to him, to lose himself for a moment among the rocks and twisted trees. He was not ready, he thought, to speak of such things: to put words around his grief. It was possible that he would never be ready. 

‘Thorin.’ 

The elf had followed him. He swallowed the bitterness rising in his throat, turning away and acknowledging her presence with a grunt. He did not want to speak to her. He did not want the words drawn painfully out of him, as she had managed to do so before. _I have been ten long years without you by my side,_ he thought bitterly. _Will you not leave me to suffer an old wound alone this once?_

‘I know you do not wish to speak.’ The elf-maid’s voice was low and soft, gentle as the fall of summer rain. ‘But perhaps you may still listen. Strange days lie ahead of us, Thorin Oakenshield. I do not know what we will face. But if ever you feel the darkness pressing too closely upon you; if the memory of old pain rises up too bitterly in your throat; then know this. You are not alone. You have friends, and comrades, who care for you. They follow you because they would not be parted from you. Because they love you. Remember that, King Under the Mountain.’ 

There was no sound, Thorin realized, that told of her departure. No breath of wind, or rustle of twigs. But she was gone, and the encroaching night suddenly felt as empty as those he had endured alone in Ered Luin. The moon hung brightly overhead, shards of silvery light spilling down among the rocks and twisted trees. He was alone once more. 

Slowly, with a gentleness that would have surprised those who knew him, Thorin placed a hand against the bole of a tree trunk, leaning forwards slowly until his forehead was pressed against the rough bark. His breath came raggedly in his throat. In the grey silence of the night, amongst the silver moonbeams that seemed to reach down with tender hands and caress his weary shoulders, Thorin Oakenshield wept. 

~

Ithilrian settled herself back beside the campfire, he face schooled into a careful mask on impassivity. She had felt the measure of Thorin’s anger and grief at the memory of Azanulbizar; and it had frightened her. But what had frightened her even more had been the look on Gandalf’s face when Thorin told Bilbo that Azog the Defiler was dead. She knew that look all too well. 

_Oh dear,_ thought Ithilrian. _This is going to be a problem._

__~_ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew! This one took longer than I expected. It's proving to be a bit harder than I thought it would be, to sort of mash up certain bits from the films with my own personal head-canon and OC. Hopefully it's still turning out ok. ^_^
> 
>  
> 
> PS: extra points go to those who spotted one of Éowyn's lines from ROTK! ;) :)))))


	23. The Trollshaws

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a particularly unpleasant trio of trolls is dealt with, and a pair of ancient swords are discovered.

Spring turned to summer, and while the weather remained mostly fair, there was the occasional deluge of rain that had all the dwarves complaining extremely vocally. Even Thorin felt like grumbling into his beard, shifting uncomfortably atop his pony, and pulling his cloak tightly around his shoulders as they continued to trudge onwards. He felt stressed and exhausted; and it wasn’t even as if he could fill his pipe and have a quiet smoke to ease some of the tension from his aching muscles. The downpour had certainly seen to that. So it was a welcome relief when the rain finally stopped and the sun appeared, and they halted amongst the dripping woodlands to make camp for the evening.

It seemed like a good spot, to Thorin’s eyes. The encroaching trees offered them shelter from any prying eyes, and the remains of a burnt-out farmhouse would provide plenty of kindling for their campfire. The only thing wrong was the wizard. 

‘A farmer and his family used to live here,’ Gandalf muttered, eyeing the remains of the broken home dubiously. ‘I think it would be wiser to move on. We could make for the Hidden Valley.’ 

‘I have told you already,’ said Thorin grimly, ‘I will not go near that place.’ 

‘Why not?’ replied Gandalf impatiently. ‘The elves could help us. We could get food, rest, advice…’

Thorin scowled. ‘We do not need their advice!’ 

Gandalf arched an eyebrow. ‘What about Ithilrian? She is an elf, and I have seen you listen to her.’

‘Ithilrian is different,’ Thorin retorted, feeling anger beginning to churn in the pit of his stomach. ‘She’s one of us, and I have no reason to doubt her loyalty. But I will not dally with others of her kind.’ 

‘We have a map that we cannot read,’ replied Gandalf sternly. ‘Lord Elrond could help us.’ 

‘Help?’ Thorin gritted the word from between clenched teeth. ‘A dragon attacked Erebor. What help came from the elves?’ He shook his head as the old, familiar rage simmered into life once more. ‘Orcs plunder Moria,’ he muttered. ‘Desecrating our sacred halls: and the elves looked on and did nothing.’ 

‘If you knew what lurks in the darkness beneath the halls of Khazad-Dûm, you would understand precisely _why_ the elves, and nobody else for that matter, should not venture there,’ snapped Gandalf impatiently. ‘But that is beside the point. I’m sure Ithilrian would agree that a short stay in Rivendell would be beneficial to us all. We could discover the secret locked within that map, and replenish our supplies all at once. I am sure that Lord Elrond would be happy to accommodate us.’ 

Thorin groaned internally. The wizard was making sense, and he knew it. But the taste of resentment sat bitterly on his tongue, and all he could think of was the fiery death that had come upon his people; and the sight of rank upon rank of elven warriors simply turning their backs, and walking away. 

‘You ask me to seek help from the very people who betrayed my grandfather, and betrayed my father,’ he growled. 

‘You are neither of them,’ replied Gandalf severely. ‘I did not give you that map and key for you to hold on to the past.’ 

‘I did not know that they were yours to keep!’ Thorin snarled in reply, glaring up at the grey wizard, almost daring him to defy his leadership. Gandalf sighed in frustration and shook his head, before turning his back and storming away. Thorin growled in the back of his throat, but allowed the wizard to leave. 

‘Everything all right?’ he heard Bilbo asking anxiously. ‘Gandalf, where are you going?’ 

‘To seek the company of the only one around here who’s got any sense,’ the wizard snapped tersely. 

‘And who’s that?’ 

‘Myself, Master Baggins! I’ve had enough of dwarves for one day.’ 

Thorin narrowed his eyes, watching the wizard striding into the woodlands, muttering to himself. He hadn’t wanted to argue with him. Nobody in their right mind would get on the wrong side of Gandalf the Grey, after all. But Thorin was feeling determined. He would _not_ go to the Hidden Valley, he told himself firmly. He would _not_ ask the Lord Elrond for help with his map. It was a dwarvish map: therefore, it must be within the power of the dwarves to unearth its secrets.

Thorin shook his head. ‘Come on Bombur, we’re hungry,’ he called, trying to shrug off the dark cloud of resentment that was lingering within his mind. ‘There’s plenty of wood for the fire here.’ 

‘Aye,’ the fat dwarf hurried over with Gloin. ‘We’ll have it going in a jiffy.’ 

Leaving the rest of the company to squabble and bicker over setting up camp, Thorin made his way over to Ithilrian. She was sitting upon a rocky slab, rummaging for something within her pack. Her pale hair had slipped forwards, masking the expression on her face as he approached. 

‘Miss Ithilrian,’ he intoned, slowing to a halt by her side.

‘My lord Thorin,’ the elf replied. 

‘What think you about our road ahead?’ he asked. ‘If we follow this path, soon we shall be forced to cross the Bruinen. Do you know of a place where we may ford the river?’ 

‘I do,’ she replied, her tone neutral, still keeping her eyes fixed upon her pack. ‘But I believe you will not like it. Perhaps it would be wiser to ask another.’ 

Something was not right, thought Thorin. He had come to her after the confrontation with Gandalf seeking the comfort of her gentle conversation, the glimmer of those grey eyes, the warmth of her slight smile. Now, it was as if that comfort was being deliberately withheld. She was avoiding his gaze. 

‘Why is that?’ he asked, lowering himself to sit beside her. ‘What troubles you?’ 

‘Nothing troubles me, _hîr vuin.’_

Thorin snorted. ‘I know that tone well. I believe it is one you have chastised me for using on several occasions.’ He bit his lip, leaning forwards a little, the better to see her expression. His fingers twitched slightly, longing to reach out and gather up her long fall of silver hair, to cup her cheek and coax a gentle answer from her lips. _How soft they look,_ his thoughts whispered, even as she turned to face him. _How fine it would feel, to kiss lips as soft as those, so plump and full of promise…_

‘I am surprised to hear you asking for my advice.’ 

Her voice sounded strained. The terse tone of it dragged Thorin’s thoughts back to reality. Her face was as impassive as usual; but as he brought his eyes up to meet hers, there was something there he did not like to see. She looked hurt. 

‘Why?’ he asked. She raised a single eyebrow skeptically. 

‘You think so poorly of the elves,’ she murmured, so quietly that he had to lean closer to catch her words. ‘I have long known it; but it has been a while since you made it quite so plain. I had hoped…’ she hesitated, turning her grey gaze away, avoiding his eyes. ‘Has nothing that I’ve done eased your hatred of my race, Thorin? Will I always be part of a people you resent and despise in equal measure?’ 

Thorin felt his face growing hot with embarrassment at her words. ‘You overheard what was said?’ 

Ithilrian shrugged. ‘Elvish hearing, _hîr vuin._ It is always sharper than you think. I did not intend to eavesdrop; but you made no effort to keep your conversation with the wizard private.’ 

‘I did not,’ acknowledged Thorin. ‘But I did not mean for my words to upset you.’ 

‘I believe you.’ Ithilrian nodded, clasping and unclasping her fingers. ‘Yet I am still a part of the race that you are so ready to deride and scorn. I also have a great fondness for Rivendell. My sister dwelt there for many years, and I have often been honoured as a guest in the Hidden Valley. Indeed, lest you forget, I spent the last decade there, under the care of Lord Elrond, when I sickened after you turned me away from Ered Luin.’ 

Thorin swallowed hard. Something unpleasant was uncoiling within his gut. A writhing, twisting, feeling that he had not felt for some time. It rose inside him like a serpent, twining around his ribcage, climbing into his chest and making it difficult to speak. 

‘I did not want to turn you away,’ he muttered hoarsely. It was the feeling of shame that was rising within him, blocking his throat, making his words choke upon themselves before they had even left his tongue. 

‘Yet you still did,’ came the soft reply. ‘Tell me, my lord Thorin: how many times has somebody else said that to you? When your people were nothing but wanderers in the wilderness, without a land or home to call their own? How many times, _mellon nîn,_ did somebody tell you that they did not want to send you away; yet still did so?’ 

‘Too many times to count,’ muttered Thorin, squeezing his eyes closed. 

‘So you know what it is like to be on the receiving end of the words you have just offered me.’ He heard Ithilrian sigh, low and soft like wind amongst the grasses. ‘I do not mean to hurt you Thorin, nor to re-open old wounds from days long passed. But I would have you remember that, the next time you pour scorn upon my people. We too have suffered many troubles; things that you have no knowledge of. Perhaps, in time, your resentment will give way to understanding.’ 

He felt a gentle pressure on his arm, and opened his eyes. Ithilrian had placed one hand tentatively upon his forearm. She was looking up at him, grey eyes anxious, as though seeking permission. With barely even a thought, Thorin found himself bringing up his own hand to cover hers, keeping it firmly in place. _How small it is,_ he thought wonderingly. _How fragile._ Her slender fingers were completely enclosed by his, and the feel of her skin against his palm sent an aching jolt through his entire body. Warmth uncoiled in the pit of his belly, spreading swiftly through him. His heart began to hammer so wildly that he was certain the elf must be able to hear it. 

‘I am sorry,’ he intoned solemnly, keeping his eyes fixed upon hers, stoically ignoring the throbbing waves of sensation that were flooding his brain. ‘I…’ He hesitated, unable to find the words. 

‘It is all right,’ Ithilrian said gently. ‘Do not trouble yourself further.’ 

‘No,’ he replied forcefully. ‘You are a member of this company – a valued member – and I wish that my words hadn’t been so… harsh.’ 

‘I am glad to hear it.’ Ithilrian smiled; and it was a warm, true smile that she offered him, her eyes crinkling at the corners, twinkling with fondness. ‘Come, Thorin. I would not have you brood overlong on this. Simply keep it in mind, should we have cause to meet or speak with any of my people. With any luck, we will all escape the encounter unscathed.’ 

Thorin snorted. ‘Aye, with any luck.’ He forced himself to smile, meeting the elf’s gaze readily. There was something in there, he thought; something he had seen before, but been unable to place or name. _If only he could just…_

‘Miss Ithil!’ Kili bellowed from across the camp. ‘Miss Ithil, have you found those herbs you mentioned earlier? Bombur says the stew’s ready for them now!’ 

Ithilrian swiftly withdrew her hand from Thorin’s arm. ‘Just coming, Kili!’ she called back in reply, both hands returning to rummaging in her pack. ‘Aha, found it!’ she cried triumphantly, pulling out a small sealed pot. ‘A culinary herb, not a medicinal one,’ she added, seeing the look on Thorin’s face. ‘Don’t worry. I have no plans to ruin Bombur’s fine stew with any of my medicines.’ 

‘Good,’ replied Thorin gruffly, attempting to conceal a chuckle. ‘I will die a happy dwarf if I never have to drink another of your disgusting concoctions.’ He nodded fondly as the elf bid him farewell before leaping gracefully to her feet and padding over to Kili and Bombur, who were taking it in turns to stir the stew and check the flavor. Thorin remained sitting on the stone where she’d left him, watching her weave in and out of the bustling dwarves with consummate ease. He smiled. It was true what he’d told Gandalf earlier, he thought happily. Despite being an elf, she was one of them now. 

~

Dusk had long since fallen. The company had settled down for the night, and there was still no sign of Gandalf. Ithilrian was worried; and she was not the only one, it seemed.

‘He’s been a long time,’ Bilbo observed, coming to hover beside Bofur. 

‘Who?’ the hatted dwarf asked. 

‘Gandalf,’ Bilbo replied. 

‘He’s a wizard, he does as he chooses,’ shrugged Bofur. ‘Here, do us a favour: take this to the lads,’ he added, handing Bilbo two bowls of stew. The hobbit nodded, and trundled away.

‘I like it not,’ murmured Ithilrian. She glanced around uneasily, taking in the looming forest, the ruined farmhouse, and the encroaching darkness. ‘There is something wrong here. I can sense it. There is a foul scent on the breeze.’ She wrinkled her pointed nose. ‘Can you not smell it?’ 

‘Nope, not unless you’re referring to Bombur’s cooking,’ replied Nori, snatching up his bowl of stew. ‘Which’d be a very rude and unladylike thing to say, Miss Ithilrian.’ 

Ithilrian sighed. ‘Bombur’s stew smells excellent, as well you know. But there is something else. I can feel it. It’s as if we are no longer alone in these parts.’ 

Thorin frowned. ‘What do you mean?’ 

Ithilrian shrugged. ‘I am uneasy, _mellon nîn._ The shadow of a threat has been growing in my mind, but I cannot lay a name to it.’ She scowled. Something was wrong. Or was _going_ to go wrong, at least. She had not inherited her mother’s gift of foresight; but her elvish senses were telling her that all was not well. ‘Where is Bilbo?’ she added, glancing around. She had taken the duty of looking after their diminutive burglar quite seriously, and made a habit of keeping an eye on the hobbit whenever they stopped to make camp.

‘Don’t fret. He just went into the woods there, to take Fili and Kili their supper,’ replied Bofur casually. ‘They’re looking after the ponies.’ 

‘Should we follow him?’ asked Thorin. His expression was serious as he glanced up at her. ‘If you are uneasy, it might be no bad thing to scout the immediate area before we sleep.’ 

‘I am not sure.’ She paced to and fro distractedly. ‘All I can say is that this place no longer feels secure. It may be nothing: just a feeling. Then again, it may not.’ She paused, and wrinkled her nose again. ‘Truly, can none of you smell that?’ 

Thorin sniffed hard. Ithilrian tried not to notice just how shapely and elegant his nose was, nor how sparkling blue his eyes looked in the firelight. ‘I can smell nothing,’ he admitted. ‘But I know you have the keenest senses among us. Perhaps we should – ’

‘Wait!’ Ithilrian tilted her head to one side, listening intently. ‘Something is coming. One set of feet, approaching from that way.’ She pointed towards the direction that Bilbo had taken, unslinging her bow as she did so. Thorin growled and moved to pull his sword from its sheath, halting the motion when Fili burst into view. 

‘Fili!’ Thorin called, as the younger Durin tumbled breathlessly into the clearing. 

‘Uncle, come quick!’ His golden braids were swinging wildly, and his blue eyes were brimming with anxiety.

‘What is it?’ 

‘Mountain trolls,’ gulped out the younger dwarf. ‘Three of them, giant ones. They’ve taken our ponies, and they’re planning to eat them! We must do something!’

‘Slow down,’ said Ithilrian gently, lowering her bow and stepping towards the young prince. ‘Take a breath, Fili. You’ll do no good panicking. Tell me, where is Kili? And Bilbo?’ 

‘Back there,’ he replied, gesturing over his shoulder. ‘Bilbo went to try and burgle our ponies back. Kili stayed to keep an eye on him.’ 

‘He _what?’_ Thorin snarled. ‘Of all the…’ he groaned. ‘Come on,’ he called to the rest of the company. ‘Grab your weapons and follow me. It seems we have some trolls to fight now.’ He tugged his sword from its sheath, motioning for them to follow him. Ithilrian stepped swiftly to one side as thirteen dwarves thundered past, axes and mattocks bristling. She frowned. Mountain trolls were difficult. Their hide was tough, and the dwarves would have to work hard to even break the skin, let alone inflict any grievous injury. She did not like the odds of their success. 

_Quickly, you must think of something,_ her thoughts whispered, as she ran back through their empty camp, grabbing her pack and rummaging within once more. Her frantic hands closed upon a small bottle made from thick, ridged glass. She pulled it out and held it up to the light, examining the dark liquid within critically. It was crude, but it would have to do.

There was no time to think of anything else. Ithilrian stuffed the bottle into a pocket, checked that her daggers were safely in their sheaths, and ran after the dwarves, pocketing a large stone from the ground as she went. Her steps were swift and silent: which is why neither the dwarves, nor the trolls, heard her coming.

She leapt lightly into one of the trees without so much as a rustle. Moving soundlessly along a thickly twisted branch, Ithilrian took in the scene below. 

The fight had not gone well. All of the company, including the hobbit, was trussed up in filthy sacks; apart from several of the dwarves, who were being lashed to some form of primitive roasting spit. Ithilrian shuddered. Trolls really would eat anything, she thought. Inching out along the branch, she drew closer to the bickering trolls, trying to ignore the furious bellows of the dwarves below. 

‘Don’t bother cookin’ them,’ one of the trolls whined. ‘Let’s just sit on them, and squash them into jelly!’ 

‘They should be sautéed,’ pondered the larger of the trolls. ‘And grilled, with a sprinkle of sage.’ 

Ithilrian smiled grimly, pulling the glass bottle from within her tunic. ‘I’m afraid this isn’t sage,’ she muttered. ‘But I believe it will do for you.’ With the bottle in one hand, she crept out over the campsite precariously, moving with great care, as the branch supporting her weight grew more and more slender. It was not long until she was balancing almost directly over the campfire. In one hand, she held the bottle. In the other, the rock she had picked up earlier. With a swift arcing motion, she threw high, over the troll’s heads. It fell through the undergrowth with a loud crash, causing the three trolls to turn immediately towards the noise. 

‘What was that?’ the smallest one asked.

‘Dunno,’ grunted one of them. ‘Perhaps there’s more of ‘em out there.’ 

Swiftly, Ithilrian uncorked the bottle. While the trolls were distracted, she upended it, pouring the entire contents into the simmering stewpot directly below her, glancing towards the dwarves to see if any had spotted her. They hadn’t: but to her surprise, Bilbo Baggins had. She saw his eyes widen with surprise.

‘Never mind,’ snapped one of the trolls, turning back to the dwarves on the spit. ‘We ain’t got all night! Dawn ain’t far away. Let’s get a move on! I don’t fancy being turned to stone.’ 

Ithilrian retreated back along the branch, out of sight. Now, if the trolls would just take another couple of mouthfuls of their stew… 

‘Wait!’ came a sharp cry from below. ‘Wait! You are making a terrible mistake.’ It was Bilbo who was calling out: Bilbo, who was deliberately attracting attention from the trolls. He had managed to lever himself upright somehow, still neatly trussed in his sack, and he hopped a few paces forward. ‘I mean, with the, uh, the seasoning,’ he added, swallowing hard as the gazes of all three trolls focused upon him. 

‘What about the seasoning?’ one of the trolls, the self-appointed cook, asked slowly. 

‘Well, have you smelt them?’ said Bilbo loudly, ignoring the muffled protests from the dwarves behind him. ‘You’re going to need something a bit stronger than sage before you plate this lot up.’ 

The troll snorted. ‘What do you know about cookin’ dwarf?’ 

‘Um… not nearly so much as you, obviously,’ the hobbit stuttered. ‘But I can certainly see that you know a lot. Your, ah, your stew there, for example. It certainly smells delicious. Well, uh, well seasoned, and well balanced.’ 

‘It certainly is,’ sniffed the troll cook. ‘Not that these ungrateful blighters can appreciate it, mind.’ 

‘Ere, who are you callin’ ungrateful?’ snarled the smallest troll. 

‘You, y’big pile of horse dung!’ snapped the cook. ‘I’m just sayin’ that a little appreciation would be nice. Thank you very much, Bert. Lovely stew, Bert.’ He paused, dunking his ladle back in the pot, and taking a long, noisy slurp. ‘Just needs a sprinkle of squirrel, don’t it,’ he added. 

Bilbo was nodding frantically. ‘I-I’m sure you’re right. Why don’t you get the others to try it too? Then… then they can see how good it is!’ 

‘Hmm.’ The cook grunted, dipping his ladle back in the stew. ‘Ere, Tom. Try a mouthful of this.’ 

‘What?’ The larger troll sniffed. ‘I’m supposed to eat this swill, when we’ve got fresh dwarf right ‘ere?’ 

‘Jus’ you wait,’ growled the cook. ‘This is proper cookin’. It’s much nicer than raw dwarf.’ 

The larger troll gulped down the ladleful. ‘I dunno,’ he said. ‘I’ve eaten plenty of ‘em raw. Nice an’ crunchy, especially with the skins on.’ 

‘Y’can have some dwarf later,’ grunted the cook, proffering a third ladleful to the smallest troll, who slurped down the stew loudly and with gusto. ‘We’ve got lots of it, after all. But I’m not havin’ my good cookin’ go to waste because you can’t appreciate the finer points of – ’ He paused, wincing. ‘What was that?’ 

‘What was what?’ said Bilbo innocently. All three trolls were frowning, their faces beginning to crease into grimaces of pain. 

‘Owww, me guts!’ wailed the smallest troll. ‘I’m melting! All me insides is melting!’ Flecks of white foam were appearing at the mouths of the trolls, as they doubled over in agony. 

‘You,’ snarled the cook, pointing his ladle at Bilbo accusingly. ‘You did something!’ 

‘Me? Oh no, no, not me!’ replied Bilbo tartly. ‘How could I? I’ve just been standing here this whole time!’ He hopped out of the way as the troll collapsed, dropping the ladle, hitting the ground with a dull _thud._ Within moments, all the troll’s movements were stilled, save for a thin rivulet of white foam trickling from all three oversized mouths. They were dead. 

The dwarves were silent for a moment, astonishment writ large on each and every bearded face. Then, all at once, they began to shout. 

‘Bilbo! What did you do?’ 

‘How did that happen? Are they all dead?’ 

‘Can someone get us down please? It’s very hot up here!’ 

The last cry came from Ori, who was still lashed to the makeshift spit, along with Dori, Nori, Dwalin, and Bofur. 

‘All right, all right!’ Bilbo called loudly. ‘Stop shouting! We’ll be out of these sacks in just a minute... right, Miss Ithilrian?’ he added, glancing up at the looming trees hopefully. 

‘Certainly.’ The elf-maid dropped from an upper branch, landing neatly in front of Bilbo, making the small hobbit jump and fall backwards. She was grinning. ‘Fine work, Master Baggins,’ she added. She pulled out a dagger and slit Bilbo’s sack open, allowing the hobbit to struggle the rest of the way out, before handing him her other blade. Together, they cut the rest of the dwarves free.

‘Miss Ithil!’ Kili was positively bouncing up and down gleefully. ‘What happened? What did you do?’ 

‘She poisoned them, of course,’ said Fili, elbowing his excitable brother. ‘That was brilliant,’ he added, grinning up at the elf. 

‘Well yeah, I guessed that, but how?’ asked Kili. ‘How did you do it, Miss Ithil?’

‘Indeed.’ Thorin rumbled. Bilbo had just cut him free from his sack. He brushed imperiously past the hobbit, striding over to confront Ithilrian. ‘I for one would like to know precisely what just happened.’ 

‘What happened, my dear Thorin, was that your life was just saved by a hobbit and an elf.’ Thorin’s head whipped around at the sound of a jovial voice. Gandalf appeared, standing on a large rock, leaning on his staff. All traces of earlier annoyance had vanished from his face. In fact, he was positively beaming. ‘Well now,’ added the wizard, hopping nimbly down to join them, ‘this is a fine state of affairs. I leave you alone for one night, and you go and get yourselves captured by trolls.’ He chuckled to himself, ignoring the glower Thorin shot in his direction. 

‘Mithrandir,’ smiled Ithilrian. ‘You have returned.’ 

‘I have,’ he said. ‘The sun is rising, and we should be on the move once more.’ 

Thorin nodded. ‘Where did you go to, if I may ask?’ 

‘To look ahead,’ Gandalf replied. 

‘What brought you back?’ 

Gandalf raised his eyebrows. ‘Looking behind,’ he said simply. ‘A nasty business,’ he added. ‘Still, you’re all in one piece.’

‘No thanks to your burglar,’ commented Thorin dryly. 

Gandalf shook his head. ‘At least he had the nous to see what your elf was up to. None of the rest of you did. And I believe he was the one who encouraged the trolls to take the, ah, fatal dose.’ 

‘Hmm.’ Thorin frowned, pointedly ignoring the _your elf_ comment. ‘Fatal it was,’ he muttered. ‘I wonder what she used?’ 

‘Perhaps you should ask her,’ said Gandalf, with a twinkle in his eye. Thorin snorted, and the wizard turned back to scan the approaching hills. ‘They must have come down from the Ettenmoors,’ he added pensively. 

‘Since when do mountain trolls venture this far south?’ asked Thorin. 

‘Not for an age,’ replied Gandalf, with a small shake of his head. ‘Not since a darker power ruled these lands.’ His brows furrowed, and for a moment his face darkened in thought. Thorin eyed the wizard carefully; but after few seconds he appeared to shake off whatever was troubling him. ‘They could not have moved in daylight,’ he said thoughtfully. 

‘Which means there must be a cave nearby,’ said Thorin. He turned on his heel, calling out for Dwalin. After only a few minutes of searching, the cave was discovered. It was a foul thing, home to many buzzing flies, as well as several piles of old bones and filth. 

Ithilrian wrinkled her nose. ‘That is what I could smell,’ she muttered. ‘It worsened once dusk had fallen; once the trolls had ventured from their lair.’ She turned away, refusing to step inside the dank dimness, covering her nose with one hand and coughing. Thorin brushed past her, brandishing a torch in one hand, and his unsheathed sword in the other. She let him go, stepping away from the cave, breathing in deep lungfuls of good, clean air. 

From within the cave, she could hear the dwarves talking amongst themselves. She caught Gloin’s thick accent among the talk: he was saying something about _making a long-term deposit._ Ithilrian rolled her eyes. Unless she was very much mistaken, the dwarves had found some gold. 

The sight of Thorin emerging from the cave caught her eye. He was carrying a pair of unfamiliar blades. ‘These swords were not made by any troll,’ he said, passing one of them up to Gandalf. 

The wizard inspected the dusty hilt carefully, before drawing the blade a little from its sheath. ‘Nor were they made by any smith among men,’ he replied slowly, beckoning Ithilrian over. ‘These were forged in Gondolin, by the high elves of the first age.’ 

‘My kin,’ Ithilrian breathed. She took the proffered sword from Gandalf and held it up to the light, ignoring a snort from Thorin. 

‘You could not wish for a finer blade,’ Gandalf snapped at the dwarf, who had been on the point of casting the sword aside. 

‘He is right,’ nodded Ithilrian, passing the sword back to Gandalf. ‘If this is truly the work of the smiths of the _calaquendi,_ then they are noble and ancient weapons indeed.’ 

Thorin scowled, drawing the sword fully and inspecting the blade carefully. Ithilrian was delighted to see his glare diminish, in the face of the sword’s obvious beauty and craftsmanship. He nodded, pleased. 

‘Come on,’ he said over his shoulder to the rest of the dwarves. ‘Let’s get away from this foul place. It’s time we were moving.’ 

As Ithilrian and the dwarves struck camp, Gandalf wandered over the Bilbo. From the corner of her eye, Ithilrian watched the wizard present a short sword to the hobbit. Her keen eyes did not miss the fact that it was the same age as the weapons that Gandalf and Thorin had claimed for their own. _Another relic from the fall of Gondolin,_ she thought to herself. The sword looked small and light: the perfect size for the diminutive hobbit. She nodded; pleased that at last Bilbo had something to defend himself with, despite his protestations that he’d never used a sword in his life. 

‘Something’s coming!’ Thorin’s bellow had them all back on the alert. 

‘Stay together! Arm yourselves!’ called Gandalf, as the company hurried away from the cave to face whatever threat had arrived this time. 

Ithilrian sighed. ‘Come on, Master Baggins,’ she called, pulling Bilbo away from inspecting his new blade. ‘Stay with the company.’ She pulled him towards the dwarves, placing him behind Fili and Kili before positioning herself defensively in front of Thorin’s nephews. Older they might be than when she had first travelled and fought beside them; but they were still so young to her eyes. She had defended the princes before, and she would defend them again if necessary. 

Her ears twitched, picking up the frantic rustling of _something_ approaching them at great speed. She drew both daggers, holding them in readiness for whatever might be coming. 

‘Thieves! Fire! Murder!’

Ithilrian felt her jaw drop. Out of the undergrowth burst the most peculiar contraption, bearing a very peculiar person. _A rabbit sled,_ she thought. _A sled. Pulled by rabbits. Well, now I’ve definitely seen everything._

~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew! Another long one! I hope this chapter reads okay, I've tweaked some of the film scenes a little so that they fit with this particular version of Middle Earth. 
> 
>  
> 
> Elvish translation notes:
> 
> Hîr vuin = my lord  
> Mellon nîn = my friend  
> Calaquendi = the Elves of Light, or Light-Elves, referring to the ancient elves who saw the light of the two trees of the Valar. Also known as the High Elves. The word comes from the Quenya _cala_ meaning 'light' and _quendi_ meaning 'elves'.


	24. Hunted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a gang of orcs and wargs chase our brave heroes across the grassy plains, and Gandalf teaches Thorin that a wizard will always get his way…

The person aboard the sled appeared to be an old, eccentric human. He was wrapped in an assortment of ill-fitting brown robes, and wore a peculiarly-shaped hat over his wildly tangled hair. But when Ithilrian looked closer, she felt an unearthly tingle run down her spine. This was no mere Man, despite the shape he wore. This was a being of power. 

‘Radagast!’ cried Gandalf jovially, sheathing his sword. ‘Radagast the Brown! What on earth are you doing here?’ 

‘I was looking for you Gandalf,’ replied the newcomer hurriedly. ‘Something’s wrong. Something is terribly wrong!’ 

Kili leaned in close to Ithilrian. ‘Who in Durin’s name is this crazy Man?’ 

‘Shh,’ she whispered. ‘I believe he is one of the _Istari._ You must careful what you say.’

‘One of the what?’ Kili frowned. 

Ithilrian sighed. ‘He is one of Gandalf’s order, Kili. Another wizard.’ She watched understanding dawn over the young prince’s face. ‘The staff and the hat are a bit of a giveaway,’ she added dryly. 

‘Hmpf.’ Kili wrinkled his nose. ‘What’s that on his face?’ 

‘With the _Istari,_ it’s often best not to ask.’ Ithilrian sheathed her daggers, sighing in relief. Whatever Radagast wanted to tell Gandalf, it was apparently important enough to delay them for a while. Thorin signaled for the rest of the company to stand easy and wait, downing their weapons once it was apparent that the peculiar wizard wasn’t likely to be a danger to anybody, except perhaps himself. He and Gandalf moved a little further along the rocks, so as to converse in private. 

Of course, private conversations were difficult things to have when there happens to be an elf in the vicinity. _Gandalf really should have remembered that,_ thought Ithilrian, settling her back against a rock and closing her eyes. She allowed her attention to drift away from the grumbling dwarves beside her, and towards the muttering pair of wizards. 

‘The greenwood is sick, Gandalf,’ Radagast was saying urgently. ‘A darkness has fallen over it. Nothing grows any more; at least, nothing good. The air is foul with decay. But worse are the webs.’ 

‘Webs? What do you mean?’ asked Gandalf. 

‘Spiders, Gandalf,’ replied Radagast seriously. ‘Giant ones. Some kind of spawn of Ungoliant, or I’m not a wizard,’ he added decisively. ‘I followed their trail. They came from Dol Guldur.’ 

‘Dol Guldur?’ murmured Gandalf. ‘But the old fortress is abandoned…’ 

Radagast shook his head. ‘No Gandalf. ‘Tis not. A dark power dwells in there, such as I have never felt before. It is the shadow of an ancient horror: one that can summon the spirits of the dead. I saw him, Gandalf. From out of the darkness… the Necromancer has come.’ 

The brown wizard broke off, seeming to squeak and quiver with fright at the memory of such a meeting. Ithilrian opened her eyes slowly. A Necromancer? Never before had she come across such a thing. She glanced over at the two wizards, her curiosity piqued. 

‘…Are you sure?’ Gandalf was saying. Ithilrian could hear the doubt lacing his words. Instead of replying, Radagast simply handed Gandalf a long, slim package. Ithilrian watched with narrowed eyes as the grey wizard unbound the crude wrappings and pulled away the concealing cloth. 

It was a sword, she realized. But not any ordinary sword. The moment the blade was uncovered, the air grew cold. An eldritch tremor took her, shivering down her spine, leaving her shuddering. 

_Cold. Pain. Fear. Loneliness._ A high-pitched sound like the ghost of a scream echoed in her mind and she gasped at the unexpected pain, raising her hands to her head and wincing.

‘Miss Ithil?’ Fili’s hand was on her arm. ‘Are you okay?’ 

Ithilrian’s eyes snapped open in shock. ‘Yes, Fili, yes, I’m fine. _Ni lassui, mellon nîn.’_

‘Umm… what?’ 

‘I’m sorry.’ Ithilrian shook her head. ‘Did you not feel that?’ 

‘Feel what?’ asked Fili. 

‘Hmm. Perhaps I am overreacting.’ Ithilrian frowned slightly, opening her mouth to speak, but halting as a long, low moan cut the air. 

‘Was that a wolf?’ asked Bilbo, standing up straight and glancing around. ‘Are there wolves out there? 

‘Wolves? No, that is not a wolf,’ answered Bofur slowly, standing up and placing a hand on his mattock. Both hobbit and dwarf were facing away from the rockfall: so neither of them immediately spotted the snarling monstrosity clambering over the ridge. 

_‘Wargs!’_ cried Ithilrian in warning. Swift as only the Elder Folk could be, she nocked an arrow to her bow, and was firing even as the slavering monster lumbered down the scree. The arrow pierced the warg’s throat even as it leapt for Dori; and the brute fell with a strangled snarl, as Thorin leapt forward and dealt a deathblow with a single, powerful sword thrust. He whirled; the elvish sword in his hands cutting a shimmering arc of silver through the air, as another of the beasts came lurching up behind him. The second warg stumbled and fell with an arrow from Kili in its chest, only to have its skull well and truly crushed by a blow from Dwalin. 

‘Warg-scouts!’ cried Thorin. ‘Which means an orc-pack is not far behind.’ 

‘Orc-pack?’ stuttered Bilbo incredulously. 

‘Whom did you tell about your quest, beyond your kin?’ demanded Gandalf, striding towards Thorin, brandishing his staff. 

‘No-one,’ snapped Thorin irritably. 

‘Who did you tell?’ repeated Gandalf, his voice rising with urgency.

‘No-one, I swear!’ growled Thorin, glancing from left to right anxiously. ‘What in Durin’s name is going on?’ 

Gandalf lowered his bushy brows and glowered at Thorin ominously. ‘You are being hunted.’

‘We have to get out of here,’ muttered Dwalin. 

‘We cant!’ came a mournful cry. Ori appeared over the ridge, his scarf hanging askew, his hair and braids rumpled from where he’d run his hands through them in panic. ‘We’ve no ponies! They’ve bolted!’ 

‘I’ll draw them off!’ 

Every head turned towards Radagast. The brown wizard did not flinch beneath their collective gazes. Instead, he raised his chin, and looked Gandalf squarely in the eye. 

‘These are Gundabad wargs,’ snorted the grey wizard. ‘They will outrun you!’ 

‘These are Rhosgobel rabbits,’ retorted Radagast. ‘I’d like to see them try.’ 

~

The low, mournful howling of the orc pack rent the lowland air. Thorin clutched the haft of his new elvish sword with hands that were white-knuckled with rage and anxiety in equal measure. 

They were being hunted. 

At least, he reasoned, the strange brown wizard had been as good as his word. His sled had taken off like an arrow from a bowstring, shooting out over the plains, providing a tempting target for the warg pack. The dwarves watched from the cover of the rocks as the pack began to give chase. 

‘Come on,’ Gandalf called hoarsely. 

It was like a giant game of cat-and-mouse, thought Thorin grimly. The company was forced to dart between the meager cover provided by irregular outcroppings of dull grey stone, while the brown wizard drew more and more wargs and orcs after him. The guttural snarls and feral howls rang in Thorin’s ears, almost drowning out the frantic pounding of his heart. His breath was wheezing raggedly in his throat as they continued to run, and duck, and run again. 

In that manner they crossed a fair part of the plains, before a low, dangerous snarl sounded from the rocks directly above their current hiding spot. A single warg-rider had broken away from the pack. Thorin chanced a glance upwards. Both creatures had their backs to them, thank Mahal. The warg’s heavy head was swinging to and fro, as though searching for the source of an illusive scent. Thorin knew it would not be long before they were discovered. 

Glancing back towards his company, he sought out Ithilrian and Kili. He raised his brows nodded at their bows, hoping to make his meaning clear. _Don’t miss, please don’t miss,_ he thought desperately, watching as the youngest of his sister’s sons licked dry lips and slowly drew an arrow from his quiver. Ithilrian had a hand on Kili’s shoulder, steadying him, her own arrow already nocked. He watched her signing silently to Kili, pointing at first herself and then miming something running on four legs, before pointing back at Kili and miming two.

 _I’ll take the warg, and you take the orc._ It only took a second for Kili to work out what she meant before he nodded. Both archers braced themselves. Ithilrian nodded a silent countdown. _Three… two… one…!_

In perfect synchronicity, both elf and dwarf stepped back from the rocks and pulled their bowstrings taut. Ithilrian was the first to fire. Her arrow flew straight into the warg’s throat, burying itself deep, almost up to the fletchings. Kili’s arrow flew an instant later. His shaft struck the orc in the chest, knocking it from its mount. A second, and a third arrow followed in quick succession from Ithilrian as she fired off two more swift and deadly shots. 

But despite their efforts, the dying yelps of the warg had been heard. The pack left off chasing Radagast, and began to close in on the Company’s position. Thorin gritted his teeth and snarled wordless defiance. 

‘Move!’ bellowed Gandalf. ‘Run!’ 

Their cover was blown. All they had left was speed, and the hope that somehow, they could outwit, outrun, or outfight the orc-pack that was closing the distance between them alarmingly quickly. 

‘This way! Quickly!’ Gandalf was leading them among the rocks as they wove an undulating path across the plains, trying to stay within cover as much as possible. But it was all to no avail. The Company clattered to a halt as more warg-riders appeared directly before them. They were cut off. 

‘Kili! Shoot them!’ Thorin shouted, not caring for stealth any more. ‘Ithilrian! Shoot!’ 

Shafts were already flying from the bows of both Kili and Ithilrian as the company clustered together in a defensive circle. On all sides, their enemies advanced. With yelps and whines, several of the beasts fell, knocked down by the arrows from both elf and dwarf: but it was not enough. The wargs were circling, slavering, pink tongues lolling from cruel jaws. _Is this it?_ thought Thorin frantically, as he whirled and thrust his blade into a warg that was foolish enough to step too close. _Is this how our quest will end? Brought down by an orc-pack before we even reach the mountains?_

‘This way, you fools!’ 

A cry from Gandalf made Thorin jump, as the grey wizard appeared to vanish behind a rock before his very eyes. ‘Quickly, all of you!’ Thorin cried. He did not know what the grey wizard had done; but he knew that it was their only chance for survival. He kept his eyes on the orcs and wargs, swinging his sword in a wide arc, daring any foul beast to come within its deadly range. Behind him he could hear muffled yells and grunts as one by one the dwarves jumped down into what appeared to be a hidden underground shaft. 

‘Fili! Kili!’ he called frantically. His nephews were still at his side. ‘Get back! Go!’ He glanced around. He was the last of the Company left; save for the elf.

‘Ithilrian!’ 

She appeared not to hear him. She was coolly standing her ground, firing off arrow after arrow in quick succession. But her supply was dwindling; and her quiver would very soon be empty. 

‘Run, Thorin!’ she cried. ‘I will cover you!’ 

‘Don’t be insane,’ snarled the dwarf angrily, whirling to slash at the throat of a warg that had ventured too close. The beast collapsed with a whimper.

Ithilrian sped another shaft into the eye of a screaming orc. ‘I will be fine. Go! Go, Thorin!’ 

‘Not without you!’ Thorin snapped. Glancing behind him to gauge the distance, he reached out and grabbed the elf around her slender waist, before leaping backwards into the dark hole that yawned open behind them. Together they tumbled down a rough earthen slope, coming to an abrupt halt at the bottom. Thorin groaned, struggling to disentangle himself from Ithilrian’s long limbs. ‘Wh – ’ 

He paused as the sound of a horn rang loud and clear above them. There was a swift thunder of hooves, and the sound of yelping and screaming rose to a crescendo. Someone – several well-armed someone’s, it appeared – was attacking the orc-pack. Thorin stepped back as the corpse of an orc fell down the shaft, sprawling lifelessly at his feet. The remains of a barbed shaft was embedded in its chest. 

‘Elves,’ he muttered furiously. 

‘I cannae see where the pathway leads!’ bellowed Dwalin from further down the shaft. ‘Should we follow it or no?’ 

‘Follow it, of course!’ cried Bofur. Without waiting for word from Thorin or the wizard, the entire company turned and began to trot eagerly down the hidden passageway. 

‘I think that would be wise,’ murmured Gandalf approvingly, adjusting his hat striding away. Thorin groaned internally. He had a sneaking suspicion where this path might take them. 

The journey took longer than he expected. They were forced to walk in single file, along a path that was no more than a long, winding cleft in the rocky terrain. Dwalin was leading the way, forging swiftly forwards, one of his twin axes always at the ready. Ithilrian was stalking in the rear, behind Thorin, the sound of her swift light footsteps reassuring Thorin as the passageway wound on. 

After an immeasurable amount of walking, stumbling, and occasionally siding down patches of loose shale and scree, the path ended. The rocky passageway widened out, and one by one the Company stepped up, blinking in the light. Thorin halted, his eyes narrowing, unable to disguise the look of disgust that crept across his face. 

For there, before their widening eyes, was a sight to gladden the tiredest of hearts. Myriad waterfalls thundered and burbled all around, and a shimmering river cut its way through the deeply cloven valley. All around them was lush, rich greenery, and the faint sound of music was in the air. 

‘The valley of Imladris,’ said Gandalf. ‘Although in the common tongue, it’s known by another name.’ He was leaning on his staff, and looking unnecessarily pleased with himself.

‘Rivendell,’ murmured Bilbo. 

Thorin turned to glance at the Halfling. His mouth was parted in an expression of astonishment. He was staring at the graceful, soaring buildings that nestled in the valley below, taking in the sight as a man dying of thirst would take in water. 

Thorin growled, deep in the back of his throat. ‘This was your plan all along. To seek refuge with our enemy.’ 

‘They are not your enemy, Thorin,’ came the gentle voice of Ithilrian behind him. ‘No more than I am.’ He turned, looking up into grey elvish eyes that sparkled with something he had not seen in her before. 

_Home,_ he realized, with a deep, wrenching pain that shook him to his very core. She thinks of this place as home. Or at least, _a_ home. A place that she was willing to return to, when she was ill and in need of rest.

‘She is right. You have no enemies here, Thorin Oakenshield,’ said Gandalf. ‘The only ill will to be found in this valley is that which you bring yourself.’

Thorin groaned. ‘You think the elves will give our quest their blessing?’ He glanced sideways, noting the frown that creased Ithilrian’s brow. ‘I do not mean you,’ he added. ‘I mean your kin. Those elves have no love of my people. They will try to stop us.’

‘Of course they will,’ replied Gandalf blithely. ‘But we have questions that need to be answered.’ He glanced between Thorin and Ithilrian, a smile once more flitting over his face. ‘If we are to be successful this will need to be handled with tact, and respect, and no small degree of charm. Which is why you will leave the talking to me, and to the Lady Ithilrian.’ His eyes twinkled merrily beneath his busy brows. ‘You may not already know that Lord Elrond is Ithilrian’s brother-in-law.’ He winked. ‘You are lucky to have her at your side, Thorin Oakenshield.’ 

‘I am well aware of that,’ Thorin muttered, rolling his eyes. ‘Very well, Gandalf. Lead on.’ 

The company followed Gandalf’s lead, as they crossed the winding path that lead deep into the heart of the Hidden Valley. Thorin was scowling. He knew is company felt ill at ease. Dwalin’s scowls, and Balin’s furrowed brow, were enough to tell him this. But beside him, Ithilrian was walking with a spring in her step and a smile on her face.

‘You at least seem happy enough,’ he muttered to her. 

‘Indeed,’ she replied quietly. ‘As I told you before, I have great affection for this place. It is one of the last unspoiled realms of my people.’ She lowered her voice even further. ‘Before my sister passed… when Celebrían still dwelt in Middle Earth, she lived here with Lord Elrond for many years. I visited them often.’ 

‘I know,’ Thorin breathed. He glanced up. Her eyes were directed away from him, taking in all the sights of the glimmering, green valley below. ‘Yet I am still uneasy. It is… difficult, for me to trust, after all these years.’ 

Ithilrian glanced down at him. He watched her gaze soften into understanding. ‘I am aware of that, _hîr vuin._ ’ Her hand found his shoulder, and gave it a gentle squeeze that sent tremors though his body. ‘Yet you trust me, do you not?’ 

‘I do,’ he answered without hesitation. 

The elf smiled. ‘Then you may trust the people of Imladris too. We are not all haughty and ill-mannered, Thorin. Remember that Thranduil and his folk only represent a small proportion of my people. You may find us more obliging than you imagine.’ 

Thorin groaned. ‘I know. And I am sorry. But…’ he hesitated. ‘This is not your home, and these are not your people.’ He frowned. ‘Unless I am mistaken?’

‘No,’ Ithilrian replied. ‘You are not. I hail from Lothlórien, not Imladris. Yet there are strong ties that bind the Hidden Valley and the Golden Wood. You would do well to remember that.’ 

‘Hmpf.’ Thorin grunted. ‘I shall do my best. I can promise no more.’ 

The silver elf smiled. ‘I ask no more than that, my lord Oakenshield.’ 

The pathway wove steadily downwards, until the dwarves found themselves deep in the cleft of Rivendell, passing between twin statues to find themselves standing in a broad, circular plaza, facing a building of towering spires and elegant domes. It appeared to be some sort of greeting platform, for it was here that both Gandalf and Ithilrian halted. 

They barely had to wait a few seconds before a tall, elegant figure descended the stairs. Thorin felt his hackles rise, tension thrumming through his bones as he eyed the person before them.

‘Mithrandir!’ the elf called. 

‘Ah, Lindir!’ said Gandalf jovially. 

The elf smiled, placing a hand over his heart and dipping his head in respectful greeting. _‘Lastannem i athrannedh i Vruinen,’_ he replied serenely. 

Thorin scowled. _Bloody elves,_ he thought bitterly. Not enough that they should treat his people like they were worth no more than the stone they walked on; but they did not even have the courtesy to speak in a tongue they could all understand.

‘Lindir! _Mae g’ovannen!’_ another voice called. Thorin scowled. Ithilrian had pushed her way through the Company to greet the strange elf. 

‘Lady Ithilrian!’ cried the elf, Lindir, his eyes widening in surprise. ‘Well met indeed! We did not think to see you again so soon!’ To Thorin’s surprise, he dipped his head towards her in a low, reverential bow. 

‘We can afford time for pleasantries later,’ interrupted Gandalf, leaning heavily on his staff. ‘I must speak with Lord Elrond.’ 

Lindir shook his head. ‘My Lord Elrond isn’t here.’ 

‘Not here?’ Gandalf raised his eyebrows. ‘Where is he?’ 

A horn-call sounded in answer, and a clatter of hooves on stone announced the approach of a troupe of elvish warriors. 

‘Get back! Close ranks!’ Thorin snarled. The rest of his dwarves appeared to have the same idea, forming into a closely-knit defensive circle, weapons bristling at the approaching riders. From the corner of his eye he noticed Bofur tugging Bilbo into a safe position in the middle of the group, as the riders drew nearer.

They thundered across the bridge, at least a dozen elven warriors, each mounted on an iron-shod stallion. The sunlight glinted off their armour and the pointed tips of their long, deadly spears. Within moments, they had surrounded the entire Company in a snorting, stamping, ring of cavalry. 

Except for Ithilrian and Gandalf, of course. Thorin glanced towards the two tall figures, who stepped easily to one side as the riders circled. Gandalf looked resigned, shaking his grey head and muttering into his beard. Ithilrian, however, looked amused. 

‘Gandalf!’ the leading figure cried. He sat comfortably astride a high bay horse, his long dark hair free from any helm. A thin circlet of silver sat on his brow. 

‘Lord Elrond!’ replied Gandalf warmly. 

_So this is the lord of Rivendell,_ thought Thorin sardonically. _Hardly a dignified entrance for a ruler._ He stood tensed beside Dwalin, weapon in hand, scowling as the elf and the wizard conversed in fluent Sindarin. 

Their exchange was short-lived, however, as Ithilrian stepped up, pushing aside the elven warriors on their horses as though they were no more dangerous than young saplings. 

‘Brother!’ she cried. Her cloak billowed around her as she strode forwards to greet the Lord of Rivendell. Tatty and travel-worn she may have looked before the Lord Elrond’s fine bronzed armour; but she held up her head with a poise and pride he had not seen in her before, and her voice was strong and sure. 

‘Sister,’ the dark-haired lord greeted her. _‘Mae g’ovannen._ I wasn’t expecting you back so soon. I thought you had… other concerns.’

‘I’m sure you did,’ she replied. ‘Else you’d have dispensed with the theatrics. Honestly, my lord, I know you can never resist a touch of the dramatic, but really…? Was all this truly necessary?’ 

Thorin had to work hard to conceal a chuckle at the blasé tone his elf – _his_ elf – was taking with the Lord of Imladris. From the looks on some of the elven warrior’s faces, they were just as surprised as he was. 

‘Unnecessary perhaps,’ Elrond replied. ‘But impressive none the less, don’t you think?’ There was a twinkle in the eye of the lord of Rivendell as he slipped from his mount to clasp Ithilrian firmly by the shoulder. 

_He was married to her sister,_ Thorin’s thoughts reminded him. _He is far older than he appears. Be wary._

‘And how went your hunt?’ Ithilrian was saying. 

‘Well,’ Elrond replied. ‘We slew a number of orcs near the Hidden Pass. Strange, for them to venture so close to our borders. Something, or someone, must have drawn them near.’ 

‘Ah,’ interrupted Gandalf. ‘That may have been us.’ The grey wizard gestured towards the dwarven company. Taking his cue, Thorin stepped forward. He tried to emulate Ithilrian, lifting his head and setting his jaw proudly as he gazed into the dark, ageless eyes of Elrond the Half-Elven, Lord of Rivendell. 

‘Welcome Thorin, son of Thrain,’ intoned Lord Elrond slowly. 

Thorin raised an eyebrow in surprise. ‘I do not believe we have met,’ he replied. 

‘You have your grandfather’s bearing,’ replied the elf lord. ‘I knew Thror when he ruled under the Mountain.’ 

‘Indeed?’ said Thorin, trying and failing to keep a lid on the resentment that was bubbling irrepressibly inside him. ‘He made no mention of you.’ He met Elrond’s gaze head-on. For a moment there was silence. The lord of Rivendell’s gaze was like a steel blade, but Thorin did not blench. He continued to hold his head up proudly, meeting the elf lord’s eyes as one King would meet another. The tension mounted. 

Eventually, it was Elrond who looked away. _‘Nartho i noer, toltho i viruvor. Boe i annam vann a nethail vin,’_ he murmured, his voice low and rolling, the complex elven syllables falling seamlessly from his tongue. 

‘What is he saying?’ Thorin heard Gloin growling from behind. ‘Does he offer us insult?’ Collected axes and mattocks bristled menacingly.

Ithilrian giggled. Gandalf sighed. ‘No, master Gloin, he’s offering you food.’ 

‘Oh.’ The red-bearded dwarf hesitated, before reluctantly downing his axe. ‘Well in that case, lead on.’

~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew! Not gonna lie, this chapter's been a pain. While chase scenes are fun to watch on-screen, I find they're hard to write and maintain interest. Still, it seems to have worked out ok so far. Next stop, Rivendell! ^_^
> 
>  
> 
> Elvish translation notes:
> 
> Mellon nîn = my friend  
> Hîr vuin = my lord  
> Ni lassui = thank you  
> Lastannem i athrannedh i Vruinen = We heard you had crossed into the Valley.  
> Mae g’ovannen = well met  
> Nartho i noer, toltho i viruvor. Boe i annam vann a net hail vin. = Light the fires, bring forth the wine. We must feed our guests.


	25. The Subtlety of Wizards

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thorin is forced to play nice with the elves, and Ithilrian and Bilbo have a friendly natter over dinner.

Seldom had Ithilrian been forced to conceal quite so much laughter in all of her long years. The dwarves, after their initial suspicion, had settled at the lowest elven tables, and were busy taking the food apart with gusto. Despite the not-so-subtle complaints about the green food and the lack of meat, there still seemed to be enough to satisfy twelve rowdy dwarves; if the laughter and the amount of food being casually tossed around was anything to go by. 

Gandalf and Thorin had been seated at the high table, beside Lord Elrond and Lindir. As Elrond’s sister-in-law, and a Lady of the Golden Wood in her own right, Ithilrian had been offered a place too; one that she had politely but firmly declined. Under any other circumstances, she would have been delighted to sit beside Thorin: to feel the warm weight of his heady presence beside her; to hear the quiet thrumming of her heart whenever his leather-clad shoulder brushed against her side; to catch a glimpse of those precious, glimmering smiles he kept well-hidden in those deep-sea blue eyes of his.

However, sitting with Thorin, with both Gandalf and Elrond at her side, was a trial that Ithilrian was not ready to endure. Both Gandalf and the Lord of Rivendell were well aware of her infatuation with the dwarf king; and Ithilrian knew that her brother-in-law possessed an impish sense of humour that was always exacerbated by the presence of the grey wizard. Hints would definitely be dropped. Insinuations would almost certainly be made. She wouldn’t even put it past those two to start on the innuendoes, especially after a few glasses of Rivendell’s fine sweet wine. She was even wondering if Elrond would eventually drop all pretense of subtlety and simply tell Thorin: tell him that the only reason he had Ithilrian in his company was because she loved him. 

Which was not true. That was certainly the main reason: the one that held her to Thorin’s side, and would continue to bind her heart to the dwarf king for as long as he might live. 

But there were other reasons as well. She had developed more than a passing fondness for each and every one of the strange dwarves that made up Thorin’s faithful company. She loved Bombur’s smile, and the way his eyes lit up when they talked about food together. She loved Ori’s shy manner, how he sat and scribbled in his journal when he thought nobody was watching, the tip of his tongue poking from the side of his mouth in concentration. She loved Bofur’s dimpled laugh, Oin’s half-deaf bluntness, Nori’s sneaky ways, Fili and Kili’s exhausting exuberance, Gloin’s loyal ferocity, Dwalin’s scowl, Bifur’s animated conversation (which, it must be said, she understood little of; save when Bofur or Bombur could be coerced into acting as translator), Dori’s fussy habits, and Balin’s gentle voice and fatherly kindness. Each and every individual dwarf was precious to her; and now there was a hobbit in the mix as well. 

Which was why Ithilrian had elected to sit at the lower tables with the rest of the Company, although it did mean she was forced to duck the occasional flying egg or chunk of potato. But it was worth it to see the expressions on the faces of the attending Imladris elves, as they tried to cope with the dwarves’ natural buoyancy. Several of them had already shot her pleading looks, as though by dint of being their companion she could put a reign on some of their antics. Which was highly unlikely, even if she had wished to. So Ithilrian had settled for simply shaking her head and shrugging at Elrond’s folk, smiling in an _I-know-it’s-terrible-but-what-can-you-do_ kind of manner, all the while gracefully dodging some of the more enthusiastically thrown vegetables, and keeping a tight lid on the bubbling laughter which threatened to spill over at every turn. 

It was also worth it to watch the face of Thorin Oakenshield as he attempted to make civil conversation with the Lord Elrond. He had already caught her eye several times during the conversation, and each time she had been forced to stifle a giggle. By the looks of things, he had also been forced to stifle something; but instead of giggles, it was the urge to wallop her brother-in-law over the head with one of the serving trays.

‘What are you laughing at?’ Bilbo asked. The Halfling had scooted in beside her, and was sitting and happily demolishing a plate of honeycakes as though he hadn’t eaten in a fortnight. ‘What’s so funny?’ 

‘Am I laughing?’ Ithilrian replied mildly. ‘I did not think that I was, _mellon nîn.’_

‘Well no,’ nodded Bilbo amiably. ‘But you’ve got this look on your face. It’s like you’re trying so hard not to laugh that any minute now, you’ll burst.’ He grinned shyly up at her. ‘I recognize that look.’ 

‘Hmpft.’ Ithilrian nodded, allowing a broad smile to creep across her face. ‘You are certainly the most astute member of our Company, Master Baggins.’ She leaned in close and dropped her voice to a whisper. ‘I fear that if I were to start laughing, I’d never be able to stop. Look at Thorin’s expression. He looks like he’s been forced to swallow raw nettles.’ 

Bilbo chuckled. ‘I suppose that’s one way of putting it. Sucking on lemons is what we’d usually say in the Shire.’ He fidgeted with his fork. Ithilrian felt the curiosity in his gaze as he shot her another glance. ‘Did I hear correctly earlier? When Gandalf said that Lord Elrond was your… brother?’ 

‘Brother-in-law,’ she corrected gently. ‘Yes, you heard aright. Long ago, he married my older sister, Celebrían.’ 

‘That’s lovely,’ nodded Bilbo enthusiastically. ‘I didn’t know you had family here. I’d love to meet her.’ 

‘I’m afraid she is… no longer in Imladris,’ Ithilrian replied slowly. ‘She fell ill, and sailed to the Undying Lands four hundred years ago.’ 

‘Oh.’ The hobbit’s face fell. ‘I’m so sorry. I don’t know much about elvish culture of course, but I understand that’s… a sad thing.’ 

Ithilrian smiled. ‘Don’t worry. I shall see her again one day, in the fullness of time. For now, I am content to wait. There is much that binds me to Middle Earth still; not least, the presence of my young niece and nephews.’ 

Bilbo smiled, relieved. ‘So you do have family here, Miss Ithilrian?’ 

‘Yes.’ She nodded. ‘Although I believe my niece Arwen is currently away, staying with her grandmother in Lothlórien.’ She glanced fondly down at the hobbit. ‘I believe you would have liked her,’ she added. ‘She takes after my sister much. She is beautiful, kind, and wise. But she’s a terror when she needs to be.’ She nodded decisively. ‘She possesses all Celebrían’s gentleness, combined with Lord Elrond’s steely resolve. One day, she will be a force to be reckoned with.’ 

‘And what about you?’ Bilbo asked. ‘Did she get anything from you?’ 

Ithilrian smiled. ‘That remains to be seen, my dear Master Baggins.’ 

‘Bilbo,’ he corrected, with another shy smile. ‘My friends call me Bilbo.’ 

‘Very well, Bilbo.’ Ithilrian dipped her head politely, narrowly avoiding a chunk of tomato flung by an over-zealous Ori. ‘My nephews, however,’ she continued serenely, as though nothing had occured, ‘are another story.’ 

‘Oh?’ Bilbo said. ‘What are they like?’ 

Ithilrian grinned, picking up a bowl of grapes, popping one into her mouth and chewing ruminatively. ‘Elladan and Elrohir are twins. Not a hair’s difference between them, you know. Even Lord Elrond struggles to tell them apart sometimes. They are dark-haired like their sister, and dark-eyed like their _ada._ Arwen was the only one who was blessed with Celebrían’s eyes.’ She smiled fondly. ‘I know Elrond sees a lot of her mother in Arwen. It’s one of the reasons he’s so protective of her.’ 

Bilbo nodded. ‘Families are funny like that.’ 

‘Indeed.’ She chuckled. ‘Thinking about it, perhaps it’s for the best that Elladan and Elrohir aren’t here. That pair have a mischievous streak a mile wide.’ She nudged Bilbo gently. ‘Imagine it: an elven version of Fili and Kili, with thousands of years to become the twin terrors of Imladris.’

‘Good grief,’ muttered Bilbo. ‘It’s a wonder Rivendell is still standing.’ He turned in his seat, his eyes widening in surprise at the very undignified snort of laughter that the elf-maid beside him did not bother to conceal. ‘What?’ 

‘Oh dear, Bilbo,’ she chuckled. ‘You just said aloud what everybody else has been thinking for centuries.’ 

‘Ah,’ nodded Bilbo. ‘I have some Took cousins that are like that too. Young, reckless scamps, some of them; always running off and having adventures, and then coming home late for tea! You know, my uncle swears that his hair went completely white from their antics.’ He pulled his wine goblet towards him, taking a contemplative sip. ‘Perhaps that’s why Thorin is going grey. It can’t have been easy, raising Fili and Kili alone.’ 

‘Not grey. Silver,’ replied Ithilrian absentmindedly. 

‘I’m sorry?’ said Bilbo.

‘I…’ Ithilrian hesitated, feeling a faint blush beginning to take over her cheeks. ‘I always thought it looked more like silver. Thorin’s hair,’ she added, at the hobbit’s perplexed expression. 

‘Oh.’ Bilbo nodded slowly. ‘I… yes, well. That’s very possibly the case.’ He glanced sideways at her. Ithilrian found herself flushing. She reached out for her goblet, taking a deep pull of wine to cover her embarrassment. The hobbit’s gaze was surprisingly analytical, his lips pursed as though he were thinking, one brow slightly raised. _Oh dear,_ her inner thought supplied. _That was stupid. Why did I say that? What’s wrong with me?_

‘Hmm.’ The hobbit appeared to snap out of his train of thought, smiling brightly at Ithilrian as though nothing had happened. ‘So why aren’t your nephews here either? Are they with Arwen too?’ 

‘No,’ replied Ithilrian, grateful for the change in conversation. ‘They travelled north some years ago. Now they ride with the Dúnedain.’ 

‘The what?’ 

‘They are the Rangers of the North,’ explained Ithilrian. ‘Warrior exiles who carry the blood of the long-lost men of Númenor.’

‘Oh.’ Bilbo nodded. ‘I’ve read a little about Númenor in some of my old books. But I’d dearly love to hear more.’ 

‘In that case, I think you may enjoy your time here, Bilbo Baggins,’ said Ithilrian with a smile. ‘All elves love to tell tales; but the folk of Imladris are especially fond of them. Tonight, if you still have a fancy for it, I will take you to the Hall of Fire, where the songs are sung and the great stories are told.’

‘Really?’ Bilbo’s eyes lit up with excitement. ‘Well that’s very kind of you – I mean, you don’t have to at all, you know – it’s just I’ve always wanted to know – ’ 

‘Peace!’ laughed Ithilrian, settling a hand comfortably on the animated hobbit’s shoulder. ‘So long as Thorin manages not to bite Lord Elrond’s head off, I hope that we will be staying here for a couple of days at least. If you’ve a mind for it, you will probably hear more tales told here than you can stomach. You’ll most likely be sick of them before we leave.’

Bilbo grinned delightedly, opening his mouth to reply, before the sound of angry booted footsteps made both their heads swing around. ‘Speaking of which…’ muttered Bilbo. 

‘Hush,’ whispered Ithilrian, trying to stifle a giggle. For standing at the head of the table, was a very grumpy and harassed-looking Thorin Oakenshield. His raven hair looked delightfully rumpled from where he had run his hand through it in frustration.

‘Everyone,’ he called gruffly. Twelve pairs of dwarven eyes turned away from the food and swiveled towards their king. Thorin scowled, speaking slowly and with obvious restraint. ‘I have been… advised by the wizard that we should spend a few days here. The map needs some… study, so I’m told, before it can be properly deciphered. So the… the _elves_ have offered us their hospitality.’ 

Ithilrian had to swallow another chuckle at the dwarf king’s clipped words and restrained tone. She knew there was likely to be other, far more offensive thoughts swirling around in Thorin’s head. But nonetheless, she was impressed. It appeared that he hadn’t managed to insult their hosts too badly, and trigger an interracial incident. _Of course, there’s still time for that,_ her treacherous thoughts whispered. 

‘Get yourselves settled,’ Thorin continued. ‘Rooms have been readied for us. I understand the hot baths have also been made available, for those who desire it.’ He shot a glance at Bilbo, who had visibly brightened at the mention of a bath. ‘Miss Ithilrian?’ he added. 

Ithilrian swiftly composed herself, meeting her king’s blue eyes with a smile. ‘My lord Thorin?’ 

‘I am told that your old rooms are ready for you. Lord Elrond asked me to mention… something about the mess being cleared up?’ Thorin raised an eyebrow questioningly. 

‘Ah.’ Ithilrian coughed lightly. ‘That’s… very kind of him. My thanks, _hîr vuin.’_ She dipped her head respectfully, trying not to melt beneath the heat of his gaze. _Oh dear,_ she thought. _I wonder what else Lord Elrond said to him. If he gave Thorin even an inkling of how I feel about him, I’ll throttle him with his own circlet._ She sighed. Maybe coming to Imladris hadn’t been quite such a wonderful plan, after all. 

Her gaze flickered up towards the high table as Thorin turned to speak with Balin. Gandalf was sitting back unconcernedly, pouring out another goblet of wine. He glanced up, catching her eye, and grinned merrily. He looked pointedly between Ithilrian and Thorin, and winked. 

_By the Lady Varda,_ thought Ithilrian, her mind suddenly a simmering cauldron of unnamed dread. _Save me from the subtlety of wizards._

~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter, folks! :) :) I know it's a tad shorter than some of the others, but I've been planning on breaking down the Rivendell bits into a couple of separate chapters, instead of just one whopping great big long one. It's far easier for me to deal with, as I'm hoping to try and cram in a fair bit of exposition. Hope they work out okay. I love Rivendell a bit too much, can you tell?? ;) 
> 
>  
> 
> Elvish translation notes:
> 
> Ada = father  
> Mellon nîn = my friend  
> Hîr vuin = my lord.


	26. Shadows of the Past

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which two important conversations occur.

It had been a very long day, thought Thorin irritably. Not only had he been forced to contend with mad wizards and warg-riders, now he had to be nice to _elves._ It was almost too much to bear. He ran a hand through his damp hair distractedly, a smile threatening to creep over his face as he listened to the rambunctious sounds of dwarven mirth drifting from the next room. 

While his company had been initially suspicious of the heated elven baths, which were so large as to be more like pools, they had taken to them like ducks to water after Dwalin had picked up Nori and tossed him bodily in: boots, clothes, weapons and all. Now the entire company was frolicking loudly in the gloriously heated water, taking full advantage of the opportunity to get really, really clean; and, by the sounds of it, making so much mess that the bathhouse would never be the same again. The various elvish attendants had already made swift excuses and vanished. 

Thorin smiled fondly. It did the dwarves good to let off steam, which is why he had excused himself from the communal pool and bathed in private. He didn’t want his presence to stifle their natural exuberance, as it had when he’d arrived late at Bag End that night. 

It seemed so long ago, he thought, since he’d managed to escape his stifling existence in Ered Luin to come on this fool’s venture. Or at least, that’s what some of the Longbeards back in the settlement had said. _Pride,_ some had called it. _Arrogance,_ whispered others. _You’re going to get them all killed._

Thorin twisted his head irritably, trying to shake off memories of the past. But still they clung to him, like cobwebs in his hair, haunting his waking and sleeping mind in equal measure. True, he had escaped from his pale imitation of life at Ered Luin: had managed to leave behind the shadows that felt like hands at his throat, suffocating him by inches. The journey had done him good so far. He felt refreshed, revitalized, the old fires within him burning fiercely once again. The only thing wrong, he thought wryly, was that he was stuck in this accursed elvish city, until such time as the map could be properly read. 

He prowled around the room they had given him, coming to a halt at the narrow open balcony. He leant comfortably against the low rail, his forearms crossed against the smooth stone, as a chill night breeze ran its fingers through his hair. Rivendell was at least a peaceful place, he thought ruefully. The very air seemed alive, filled with song of the night birds and the gentle melodies of elvish music drifting up from the halls below. On the path beneath his balcony several tall, stately figures wandered slowly to and fro; as well as one shorter, stouter one. 

It was Bilbo Baggins, realized Thorin slowly. The hobbit was trotting along eagerly beside a taller robed figure, whose deep hood concealed her face, but not the long shimmering waves of starlight hair that fell unbound over her shoulders. 

Ithilrian must have bathed and changed as well, Thorin realized, leaning further over the balcony. Gone were her travelling leathers and old cloak. A pale gown had replaced them, with a dark silver-grey hooded robe that seemed to shimmer and shift hues as she walked. Her head was tilted downwards, towards her diminutive companion, and they appeared to be conversing cheerfully. 

‘They are heading towards the Hall of Fire,’ a low voice came from behind him. ‘There will many tales be told, and many songs be sung with many voices, until the break of day.’

Thorin stiffened. He had not heard the elf come in. Swiftly he composed his features into a mask of impassivity, shifting only slightly as the Lord of Rivendell appeared beside him. 

‘Lord Elrond,’ he greeted gruffly. ‘I had not expected to see you.’ 

‘I am aware of that.’ The tall elf nodded. ‘But I was hoping to speak with you for a moment. In private,’ he added. 

Thorin glanced up at him, surprised. The elf’s voice sounded strained, almost weary. Gone were the long, sweeping robes that the Imladris elves seemed to favour; gone as well was the silver circlet and the embroidered finery. Without them, the Lord of Rivendell appeared significantly smaller, and far less threatening.

‘As you wish,’ Thorin found himself saying. An undercurrent of ancient resentment was still flowing strongly within him, but he decided to ignore it for now. Curiosity was flashing a fin. ‘What did you want to speak of?’ 

‘I wish to speak of family,’ replied Elrond. He leaned forwards, settling himself against the rail that Thorin was leaning on, making himself comfortable before continuing. ‘If what I know of dwarves is correct, then your people place a great deal of importance upon family. Bonds of blood run through the dwarven kingdoms, clans are bound through marriage, and a family tie is not something that is lightly forsaken; especially when it comes to the line of Durin.’ He paused, gazing up at the stars. ‘Am I right?’ 

‘Yes,’ Thorin replied slowly. ‘The bonds that connect family are the most important ties to my people.’ He shot a curious look at the Lord Elrond, who still had not turned to face him. 

‘I see.’ The elf nodded. ‘To a slightly lesser degree, it is the same amongst the elves. We are loyal to our family, we love and cherish them deeply; and we wish to protect them from any harm that might come their way.’ It was then that Elrond finally turned, looking keenly at Thorin with his dark, ageless eyes. ‘You know, of course, that the woman in your company is no simple elf-maid.’ 

‘I am aware of that,’ nodded Thorin, scowling, wondering where Elrond would take the conversation. The elf clearly had an agenda. ‘She told me everything.’ 

‘Everything?’ replied Elrond. A single, elegant eyebrow lifted slightly. 

‘Everything about… her lineage,’ said Thorin warily, keeping his eyes on the elf lord’s face, trying to gauge his reaction. ‘I know that among my people, she’d be a titled princess, or even a queen. I also know that she ran from her birthright after her sister was attacked and sustained certain… unhealable wounds. She also told me that her sister… was your wife.’ He inclined his head solemnly towards Lord Elrond. ‘I am sorry for your loss.’

‘I thank you,’ replied the dark elf quietly. ‘Many years have passed, and time has dulled the sting of it; but not for all of us.’ He glanced down at Thorin. ‘The Lady Ithilrian still feels it bitterly.’ 

‘I know that,’ nodded Thorin. 

‘Then you can understand why I am concerned for her,’ said Elrond. ‘She is, after all, my family.’ 

‘Concerned?’ asked Thorin, his brow furrowing. ‘While we may face many dangers on this quest, your sister-in-law is a strong and fierce warrior. She is also under my protection, and that of the Company. You need not fear for her safety.’ 

‘Indeed,’ smiled Lord Elrond, ‘I am glad to hear it.’ A glimmer of mirth appeared for a moment in the elf lord’s eyes. ‘However, it is not the perils that face you both that currently concern me.’ 

‘What then?’ 

Elrond paused, seeming to hesitate, as though seeking the right words. ‘She fled, you know,’ he murmured eventually. ‘After we saw Celebrían safely to the Havens, and watched her ship sail into the West. Ithilrian gave no word, no sign. She did not even look at me, or her parents, before climbing back on her horse and galloping wildly away.’ The elf lord heaved a long, low sigh that seemed far too heavy for his slight frame. ‘She simply… left.’ 

‘She gave you no warning?’ said Thorin softly. ‘That seems most unlike her.’ 

‘It does,’ nodded Elrond. ‘Which is why we feared for her. At least, her father and I feared for her. Her mother was the only one who seemed to expect it. But then, the mind of the Lady Galadriel is often unfathomable. It could be that Ithilrian confided in her mother before she ran. Or it could be that the Lady of Lórien just… knew. She does that, sometimes.’ He shifted slightly, leaning more heavily against the balcony rail. ‘Grief can do terrible things, Thorin Oakenshield. You’ve seen it yourself, I know. It can drive men mad. But it is also one of the only things that can kill one of the Firstborn.’

‘But Ithilrian yet lives,’ Thorin said gruffly. ‘So why are you telling me this?’ He swallowed hard against the tightness in his throat. A memory was tugging at him, of firelight glimmering on silver hair, of slow and gentle words spoken in the dead of night, when all others were asleep; when they had not talked like elf and dwarf should, but simply as a tired man and a lonely woman, speaking together of grief and loss. He remembered the remorse in Ithilrian’s voice, and the bitter self-disgust that had twisted her delicate features when she described how she had failed Celebrían; failed to protect the person she loved most in the world.

‘Because I am afraid,’ came the soft voice of the Lord of Rivendell, weaving its way into his memories. ‘I am afraid for her. She has come to care for you deeply, I deem. More deeply than you know.’ 

Elrond paused, looking down at Thorin expectantly. 

‘And we care for her,’ Thorin replied, ignoring the frantic pounding of his heart. _What if…?_ his thoughts whispered. 

_No,_ he told himself firmly. _Don’t become a bigger fool than you already are._ ‘Every member of the Company cares for Ithilrian’s safety,’ he snapped. ‘And her wellbeing,’ he added fiercely. 

‘I see.’ Elrond sighed, and straightened up. ‘Be wary, Thorin Oakenshield. When Ithilrian lost her sister, she lost half of her soul. A great void was created within her. It is my belief that she wandered the wide world for four hundred years, looking for something to fill it. And she found you.’ 

‘I am lucky that she did,’ muttered Thorin. ‘I was wounded, near to death. She saved my life. I will always be grateful to her.’ 

‘Indeed?’ smiled Lord Elrond. ‘I was not aware of this. But then, until she came to me a decade ago, I had not seen her since Celebrían’s passing. She arrived at my doorstep without warning, weary and sick at heart.’ He fixed Thorin with a cold, hard stare. The dwarf king found himself shifting uncomfortably under the Lord of Rivendell’s steel gaze. ‘She trusts you, Thorin Oakenshield. Make sure that trust is not misplaced.’ 

‘I will.’ Thorin stood up straight, folding his arms defiantly, returning Elrond’s searching gaze with a challenging one of his own. 

‘Hmm.’ Elrond straightened up, a slow smile playing over his ageless features. ‘Only time will tell us, I suppose.’ He inclined his head gently. ‘And now I shall leave you. The hour grows late, and I have trespassed too long upon your time. Thank you for indulging my concerns.’ 

Thorin inclined his head in return. ‘It was no trouble.’ 

‘Indeed.’ Elrond smiled. ‘If you wish to seek out Ithilrian, or the Halfling, I believe both are still in the Hall of Fire; and are likely to remain there for some time, I understand. Farewell.’ 

The elf lord left with barely a sound. Thorin exhaled a long, slow, relieved breath. It was strange, he thought, just how personal that quiet conversation had become. It reminded him vaguely of one he’d had with his brother-in-law Vílí, before he’d allowed the laughing, golden-haired jeweler to marry his sister. In retrospect, Thorin knew Dís had made a good choice. Fili and Kili were the living proof of that. But at the time, Thorin had been nothing but wary and suspicious, determined that no dwarf in Erebor would ever be good enough for his precious sister. 

But Vílí had been good. It was because of Vílí that Fili and Kili were still alive. Thorin grimaced as bile rose up in his throat. He tried to shake off the memory that was pulling at him; of the last time he’d seen the golden dwarf. His hair and one side of his face had been badly burned when he thrust two tiny bundles of terrified dwarfling into Thorin’s arms, before hurtling back through Erebor’s smoking corridors to search for Dís. 

Neither of them had made it. Thorin had been left alone from that day onwards, hot tears streaking through the soot and grime that smeared his face. He remembered clutching his baby nephews tightly to his chest, as if by some miracle they would mend his broken heart. 

Thorin snarled, dashing his fists angrily against the carved balcony rail. _It wasn’t fair,_ his internal thought cried. _It wasn’t fair! Why was he still alive, when so many good dwarves were dead? What made him so much better than them: so much more deserving of life?_

‘Nothing,’ he growled from between gritted teeth. He clenched his jaw so hard that it hurt. ‘Absolutely nothing.’ 

His hand wandered towards his throat, unbidden. It was an old, familiar gesture, one that he hadn’t repeated since leaving Ered Luin. The Twilight Stone still hung around his neck, largely forgotten, concealed beneath his tunic. A shudder ran through the tired dwarf as his fingers closed around the smooth, cold jewel. The memory of a voice rose up in his thoughts.

_‘If ever you find yourself in darkness, doubt, or danger, hold the jewel in your hand and call my name. I will hear you, and I will come.’_

‘Ithilrian,’ whispered Thorin softly. ‘Ithilrian.’ 

_‘Thorin.’_

An answering whisper seemed to drift towards him on the breeze, soft as winter sunlight. He turned, swallowing the lump in his throat, blinking ferociously as he looked towards the balcony. The figure of the elf-maid seemed to hover there for a moment, no more than a shadow made from falling leaves and glimmering starlight; but she was there. 

‘What ails you, Thorin?’ her voice was soft and very low, barely reaching the dwarf king’s ears. 

‘Nothing,’ he muttered. ‘Nothing but a dream.’ 

He felt a breath of wind rush past his ear, and then Ithilrian was there, standing beside him, still barely visible but somehow still a tangible presence in the chamber. Her long robe was made of nothing but mercurial shadows, and her head was crowned by the light of the faint winter stars that twinkled and glittered above them. 

‘Why do you fear the past?’ came her gentle voice. ‘You are alive, Thorin. Yes, there is sorrow in your life, and misery, and pain; but courage also, and joy, and hope to found in this world. You cannot allow the past to consume you, the same way dragon-fire consumed Erebor. All it will bring upon you is the same ruin.’ 

Thorin hung his head. ‘I ran from Ered Luin to escape my present, only to find myself dwelling in the past once more,’ he murmured. ‘This quest… has raised up some stubborn, bitter memories.’ 

‘You must learn to let go, Thorin.’ The shadow of Ithilrian stepped closer, a single translucent hand reaching out to comfort the dwarf king. ‘Your past will always be with you, but it does not have to control you.’ 

‘I know,’ he replied quietly. ‘I know. But it is hard. We both have our own shadows of the past, Ithilrian. We both have bitter memories that we cannot yet let go.’ 

‘Then perhaps there is strength, and wisdom, in facing them together,’ whispered the elf. Her diaphanous robe swirled around them, and Thorin found himself looking up into ancient eyes that glimmered with the memory of tears. 

‘Aye,’ he agreed, in a choked whisper that he had to force from a tight, painful throat. ‘You may well be right.’ His hand opened, revealing the stone he had kept a tight hold of the entire time. ‘Thank you,’ he added haltingly. 

‘You are most welcome.’ The luminous shadow of Ithilrian smiled softly. ‘But before I leave, I would have you smile again. It would not do, my lord Thorin, for you to sit alone with a face like thunder until the dawn breaks.’ She tilted her head to one side, a hint of mischief creeping into her faint smile. ‘You are welcome to join myself and Master Baggins,’ she added. ‘They have begun to sing the Lay of Leithian down in the Hall of Fire. Perhaps some ancient elvish poetry would serve to soothe your spirit?’ 

‘Hmpf.’ Thorin gave a light chuckle, feeling his face cracking into a reluctant smile at the thought. ‘Save me from the cruelty of elves, Silver Lady. Send me wargs, goblins, trolls: send me anything, but poetry.’ 

‘There we go,’ Ithilrian smiled, her silvery laugh mingling with the ever-present whisper of Rivendell’s waterfalls. ‘I knew there had to be something that would work.’ She paused. _‘Gellon ned i galar i chent gîn ned i galadhog,’_ she added softly. 

Thorin shook his head. ‘I don’t know what that means.’ 

‘It’s just… a line of elvish poetry,’ chuckled Ithilrian. ‘Nothing that would interest you, I fear. Farewell, my lord Thorin. _Ollo vae.’_

‘Goodbye.’ Thorin said quietly. With one last smile, the figure of Ithilrian dispersed. Where before there had been the faint outline of the slender elf-woman, all that remained in Thorin’s bedchamber was the faint gleam of distant starlight. With a low groan that tore from somewhere deep, deep inside his soul, Thorin sunk slowly back onto his haunches, and buried his head in his hands. 

~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aww, bless. So much trauma. I do believe that was Elrond's attempt to give Thorin 'the talk'. Too bad the poor dwarf didn't notice. 
> 
>  
> 
> Elvish translations: 
> 
> Ollo vae = sweet dreams  
> Gellon ned i galar i chent gîn ned i galadhog = I love to see your eyes shine when you laugh.


	27. Rivendell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Bilbo wanders the halls of the fabled elven city, and makes a small accidental discovery…

The following day dawned bright, fresh, and crisp. In his oversized bed in one of Rivendell’s guest chambers, Bilbo Baggins yawned and stretched. Sunlight was slanting in through the open windows, and the smell of fresh baking was drifting on the breeze. It was that scent in particular that had awoken the hungry hobbit.

Not that Bombur’s cooking wasn’t up to par, Bilbo thought hastily. The rotund dwarf had a wonderful way with flavor; and, in Bilbo’s opinion, a very healthy attitude towards food. But the elven honeycakes he’d eaten last night, as well as the flatbreads, sweet oat biscuits, fruited scones and honeyed wafers… well, the memory alone was enough to set Bilbo’s mouth watering. 

He spent a few more minutes indulging in the luxury of having a real bed for a change, before his stomach decided to offer encouragement with a loud, insistent gurgle. ‘All right, all right,’ Bilbo grumbled, pulling himself upright and running a hand through his unruly curls, before tugging on clean trousers and a shirt, rummaging around for his best – well, his least rumpled – waistcoat. 

Suitably smartened up, Bilbo hesitated before opening the door of his room. The last homely house seemed very quiet, he thought. Perhaps it was too early for anybody else to be up. After all, a lot of elves had remained in the Hall of Fire until very late; and even when Bilbo had been yawning and unable to keep his eyes open, the elves had shown no inclination of going to bed. 

Perhaps everybody was outside, he thought. After all, it seemed a beautiful day; and elves were nature-loving folk. In which case, nobody could blame a hungry hobbit for just popping downstairs to find a bite to eat… 

Moving as quietly as he could, Bilbo wandered slowly through the high, winding corridors of Rivendell. Despite his insistent hunger, he was in no particular rush to get anywhere. The beauty of the elven city was a marvel. Everywhere he looked, he saw something new and delightful; to sweepingly elegant stonework arches, to the carved wooden handrails, to the many, many books that were lying around on shelves or in cases. He had picked up several and leafed through them excitedly, before realizing they were all in Sindarin. He made a mental note to ask Ithilrian about them. Perhaps she’d be able to direct him towards a library, where he could see if there were any Westron translations available. 

After several more minutes of wandering, Bilbo began to feel frustrated. He was attempting to follow his nose; but the corridors wound in disconcerting loops, broken up by the occasional open plaza or spiraling staircase. It was all very disconcerting; and eventually, Bilbo had to admit that he was lost. 

_‘Mae g’ovannen,_ Master Baggins.’ 

Bilbo jumped in surprise, spinning round to confront the tall, smiling elf that seemed to have appeared from nowhere. ‘Hullo, Ithilrian! Where on earth did you spring from?’ 

‘From the upper east wing,’ smiled the she-elf, gesturing towards a small, wooden door that Bilbo hadn’t noticed before. ‘My apologies if I startled you.’ 

‘No, no matter,’ nodded Bilbo. ‘I’m glad to see you. I’m afraid I seem to have gotten all turned around. I was looking for…’ 

He broke off, blushing as his stomach gave a loud, embarrassing gurgle. 

‘… For the kitchens?’ finished Ithilrian, arching one eyebrow and smiling slightly. 

‘Umm, yes,’ admitted Bilbo. ‘I just thought, you know, a nice morning pastry or two, and a cup of tea in the gardens perhaps, would be a very civilized way to start the day.’ 

‘I quite agree,’ replied Ithilrian. She raised her head and sniffed. ‘You’re not the only one who can smell the fresh breads, Bilbo. As a matter of fact, I was just on my way to the food halls myself. Care to accompany me?’ 

‘Oh yes,’ nodded the hobbit happily. ‘That way I might actually reach the kitchens, instead of bumbling around lost. Honestly, I don’t know how you do it. This place is a maze.’ 

Ithilrian shrugged. ‘We’ve had a long time to learn. Imladris wasn’t built over the course of a few days. Its construction took many years. Several adaptations and additions have been tacked on to the original designs, you know. The layout’s been evolving for centuries.’ She pushed open a set of double doors, allowing the hobbit to trot beneath her arm. ‘Indeed, sometimes I think that the Lord Elrond is the only one who knows his way around all of the corridors and passageways of this place. And Mithrandir, of course. It would explain how he’s always able to pop up at opportune moments.’ 

‘I shall take that as a compliment.’ 

The unexpected voice made Bilbo jump, but Ithilrian gave no sign of surprise at the sudden appearance of the grey wizard. ‘Good morning, Mithrandir,’ she nodded gracefully. ‘Did you sleep well?’ 

‘I did,’ twinkled the wizard cheerfully. ‘It’s certainly pleasant to have a comfortable bed and a feather pillow for a change,’ he added. ‘Wouldn’t you agree, Bilbo?’ 

‘Hm? Oh yes, I certainly would,’ nodded the hobbit. ‘No rocks, gravel, or tree roots sticking into my back for once. And no dwarven snoring, either. Lovely.’ 

‘Hmpf.’ The wizard huffed loudly, fingers tightening around the grip of his staff as they continued down the broad, sweeping corridor. ‘In that respect, I think you were more lucky in your choice of rooms than I. I believe that Oin and Gloin were in the chamber adjacent to mine, if the racket was anything to go by.’ 

‘Oh goodness,’ stuttered Bilbo. 

‘Indeed,’ nodded the wizard. He glanced sideways at Ithilrian. ‘Something amuses you, my lady?’ he added. 

‘Oh no, not at all,’ the silver elf said lightly, trying – and failing – to hide her laughter at the wizard’s grumbling. ‘I have every sympathy for you, Mithrandir.’

‘Hmm.’ The grey wizard muttered something incomprehensible before pushing open another set of doors. ‘Ah, here we are,’ he added jovially. All his resentment at dwarven snoring seemed to have been banished by the sight of the freshly baked goodies that were laid out before them. Bilbo felt his mouth begin to water. 

The elven kitchens were busy, tall figures moving to and fro, their lithe forms moving gracefully in and out of each other’s way. ‘Wait here,’ said Ithilrian, before slipping through the doors and vanishing among the bustle. She reappeared a few moments later, balancing a tray containing a large teapot, three cups, and a platter stacked high with baked treats. 

‘I wasn’t sure what you’d like,’ she remarked to the hobbit, as they made their way down to the open gardens. ‘So I lifted a little of whatever was ready.’ 

The elf, hobbit, and wizard settled down at a small, elegant outdoor table. Bilbo busied himself with the teapot, grinning in delight at the fragrant steam that rose as he poured. He listened with a smile as Gandalf and Ithilrian chattered congenially, discussing small changes that had occurred within Imladris over the years. For the most part, Bilbo was content simply to listen, only butting on occasionally to comment on the quality of the food, or the fineness of the wine, or the clearly exceptional quality of the tea they were sipping. 

Eventually, Gandalf heaved himself upright. ‘Well, that was a most excellent way to spend the morning,’ he smiled. ‘Much more pleasant than arguing with mountain trolls or running from warg-packs.’ 

Bilbo snorted. ‘I certainly agree.’ 

‘Good. Then I shall leave you in the capable hands of Ithilrian, Master Baggins. I have business to attend while I am here. I shall see you at supper. Good morning.’ 

‘Good morning,’ echoed Bilbo, smiling fondly as he watched the old wizard stride away. ‘Do you know,’ he added to Ithilrian, ‘that was the first thing I said to him before this adventure began? I didn’t even recognize him, or remember who he was. He gave me quite the earbashing.’ 

‘Oh?’ Ithilrian tilted her head to one side questioningly. 

‘Yes,’ nodded Bilbo. ‘Started going on about all the meanings of the phrase ‘good morning’ as I recall, and wondering which one in particular I meant. It quite put me off my pipe.’ 

‘That certainly sounds like Mithrandir,’ laughed the elf. ‘Still, if his words contributed towards your decision to join our Company, then I for one am delighted. Tell me, what do you wish to do for the day? As you may have guessed, I’ve spent a lot of time in Rivendell. I could show you around if you wished.’ 

‘Absolutely!’ grinned Bilbo, feeling his face and ears flush with delight at the idea. ‘This place, it’s just… stunning, I think is the word. It feels almost unreal, you know? Like a waking dream.’ 

Ithilrian nodded. ‘Many mortals feel that way when they first enter the Hidden Valley. An ancient power thrums through its very foundations. That is what you can feel.’ She drained her cup and stood up, brushing pastry crumbs from the long, pale blue robe she was wearing in place of her travelling gear. ‘Come, Bilbo. What would you like to see first?’ 

‘I don’t know,’ replied the hobbit, replacing his cup on the tray. ‘I’m not sure what there is to see.’ 

‘Well, there are the gardens of course, and the fruit orchards, the waterfalls, the lover’s bridge, the undergallery, the archives, the wildflower meadow, the beehives, the…’

‘Wait, wait!’ Bilbo laughed and raised his hands. ‘Too much! Why don’t we just… wander, you know? And you can point out your favorite bits. If it’s not too much trouble, of course.’ 

‘Not too much trouble at all,’ replied the elf serenely. ‘Come, then. We shall walk through the gardens first, working our way up the valley-side until we reach the falls.’ 

~

In that way, Bilbo Baggins spent a very pleasant morning and afternoon. Despite how narrow the Hidden Valley was, it certainly didn’t lack for space. Bilbo had been shown one beautiful sight after another. The pair was just on their way back towards the gardens for afternoon tea, picking a path down the stony slopes of the western valley, when they were ambushed once again by Gandalf. 

‘There you are,’ huffed the grey wizard. ‘I’ve been searching all over for you two. Come along.’ He beckoned them down, striding ahead to where Thorin was waiting at the foot of the path, looking thoroughly irritable, his arms folded stubbornly across his chest. 

‘There has been a development,’ said Gandalf, once they were all on flat ground once more. ‘It appears we shall not be staying any longer in Rivendell after all.’ 

‘Why is that?’ asked Ithilrian. 

‘Two very important things,’ continued Gandalf, ignoring the interruption. ‘First and foremost, is that through dint of study, Lord Elrond has discovered where the hidden text is, in Thorin’s map.’ 

‘That’s… good, isn’t it?’ said Bilbo. 

‘Indeed,’ nodded Gandalf, ignoring a huff from Thorin. ‘However, the secret cannot be unlocked just yet. The map contains moon-letters, made from _Ithildin,_ which can only be read by the light of the same moon by which they were written.’ 

_‘Ceris Ithil,’_ murmured Ithilrian. ‘Of course.’ 

‘A tricky and complicated business,’ added Gandalf. ‘But Elrond seems confident that once darkness falls, the runes may be read.’ He glanced sharply at the disgruntled-looking Thorin. ‘Cheer up, Thorin,’ he added. ‘We are one step closer to revealing the secret that lies within that map: and one step closer to your goal.’ 

‘You have not yet spoken of the second thing,’ replied the surly-looking dwarf. 

‘Ah,’ nodded the wizard. ‘That is why I wanted to speak with all three of you. The Lord Elrond had called a Council of the Wise. I suspect it will be held after we have examined the map. I have not been told its purpose: but I can guess.’ He lowered his bushy brows and scowled. ‘I am not the only guardian to stand watch over Middle Earth. There are others, who have less love of dwarves, and hobbits, than I. I believe the Council has been called in order to question the merits, and motives, of Thorin’s quest.’ 

‘It is my quest, and my birthright,’ snarled the dwarf king. ‘I told you, Gandalf: the elves are trying to stop us.’ 

‘This we already knew,’ replied Gandalf impatiently. ‘So I have devised a plan. After we have decoded the map, Thorin, you must make your company ready. It is likely that the Council will go on for some hours: and in that time, you must leave under cover of darkness, just before the dawn.’ 

‘We are to simply sneak away?’ replied Ithilrian, surprised. ‘We are not thieves in the night, Mithrandir. I dislike being forced to deceive my brother-in-law.’ 

‘I know. But I believe it will be the safest way for you to leave Imladris unhindered,’ said Gandalf. ‘Wait for me in the mountains. I will re-join you as soon as I am able, before you reach the High Pass.’ He scowled at the low, angry breath that hissed from Ithilrian, but did not comment. 

‘Very well,’ intoned Thorin. ‘We will follow your plan. I spread word to the Company, but quietly.’ 

‘Good,’ nodded Gandalf. ‘I shall find you once dusk has fallen, Thorin, so that I may take you to Lord Elrond. Bilbo, my dear fellow, I want you to come along as well.’ 

‘Oh! I, er… well certainly, if you think that’s best,’ said Bilbo uncertainly, shooting an anxious glance at Thorin. 

‘As you wish,’ said Thorin, nodding brusquely at the hobbit. ‘I will bring Balin. He should be there for this.’ 

‘Of course.’ Gandalf tapped his staff on the ground thoughtfully. ‘Ithilrian, will you join us?’ 

Ithilrian shook her head. ‘No, Mithrandir. I do not think it is my place. Besides, I have some preparations of my own to make, if we are to attempt the High Pass.’ She smiled widely; but this wasn’t a pleasant smile. There were altogether too many teeth bared, and too much vindictiveness, for it to be called anything other than predatory. ‘I owe a debt to the goblins that dwell among the Misty Mountains,’ she added softly. ‘I must go sharpen my blades, and replenish my arrows.’

‘A debt?’ asked Bilbo, confused. ‘What debt?’ 

Gandalf sighed in frustration. ‘We are not going looking for vengeance,’ he addressed the elf sternly. ‘We aim to slip past quickly, and quietly. The less trouble we attract, the better. I forbid you to go goblin-hunting. Understand?’ 

‘You forbid me?’ Ithilrian’s eyebrows shot up indignantly. 

‘Yes,’ replied the grey wizard sternly. ‘For now,’ he added. 

‘Very well.’ Ithilrian’s shoulders slumped. To Bilbo, the elf appeared to have deflated, a shadow passing over her features, making her look older and more tired than she had a few moments ago. ‘I shall abide by what you say, Mithrandir.’ 

‘Good,’ nodded the wizard, before he strode off. ‘You never know, we might live through this thing yet.’ 

~

‘What… what did she mean?’ Bilbo asked tentatively. He was trying to keep pace with Thorin, trotting along at his side, wincing at the constant dull thudding of the dwarf’s metal-tipped boots. He was stomping fiercely along Rivendell’s paths as though he held a personal grudge against them.

‘Hmm?’ the dwarf grunted, barely glancing at him. 

‘Ithilrian said something,’ Bilbo continued, trying not to be intimidated by the dwarf king’s temper. ‘Something about owning the mountain goblins a debt?’ 

‘Oh.’ Thorin slowed slightly. Bilbo glanced up at him, surprised to notice his scowl slipping at the mention of the elf-maid. ‘That… is not my tale to tell, Master Baggins. It was told to me in confidence.’

‘Ah,’ nodded Bilbo. ‘Sorry I asked.’ 

‘It is of no matter.’ Thorin sighed. ‘If we are to attempt the High Pass, I am sure you will find out anyway. So all I shall tell you is this. Ithilrian has cause to hate the goblins of the Misty Mountains above all others. Some years ago, they brutally attacked her sister. I dare say she wanted revenge. I know I would.’ 

‘So that’s what Gandalf meant,’ said Bilbo, understanding dawning. ‘My goodness, what a horrible thought.’ He shivered. ‘Personally, I hope we can get through the mountains without meeting any goblins, of any kind.’

Thorin glanced sideways, a small smile skittering over his features, vanishing almost instantly. ‘This time, I must admit that I share your sentiments, Master Burglar. The fewer goblins I see, the happier I’ll feel.’ 

‘That’s something we can agree on, at least,’ grinned Bilbo amiably. ‘Who knows, maybe we’ll be lucky.’ 

‘Perhaps.’ Thorin sighed. ‘You should stay with the Company for the rest of the evening, Master Baggins. I think it would be wise for us to stick together now. So no more wandering off with the elves.’ 

‘What about Ithilrian?’ asked Bilbo. ‘She went off alone somewhere.’ 

Thorin shrugged. ‘The elf does as she pleases. It is no concern of mine, so long as she returns by the appointed hour.’ 

‘Which I’m sure she will,’ replied Bilbo. 

Thorin nodded agreement. ‘She has never let me down.’ 

‘That’s one of the reasons you like her, isn’t it,’ said Bilbo, wrinkling his nose knowingly. 

‘What?’ snapped Thorin, stopping dead in his tracks. 

‘You… like her, don’t you? I mean, you mutter and snarl at the rest of the elves here, but you’re perfectly civil towards her.’ 

‘Oh.’ To Bilbo’s surprise, Thorin seemed to hesitate, as though casting around for the right words. ‘Yes, I suppose I…’ He cleared his throat gruffly. ‘See to your packing,’ he added sternly. ‘We must be ready to leave before dawn. I will not tolerate anybody holding us up.’ 

With that, the dwarf king stalked off, bellowing something incomprehensible in what Bilbo assumed to be Khuzdul at the nearby Dwalin and Bofur. Bilbo stopped, shaking his head in bewilderment. 

He thought that conversation had been going quite well. Over the course of the quest so far, Bilbo hadn’t found many opportunities to chat openly with Thorin. Ever since the evening in Bag End, he’d found the scowling dwarf intimidating. But he had been enjoying chatting with Thorin just then. He’d finally felt like the stern dwarf had dropped his guard a little, just enough to at least be friendly; until Bilbo had said… 

_Oh,_ he thought to himself. _Oh dear._

The thought that had just presented itself to him was so big that he was forced to lean against a railing for support. Suddenly, a lot of little things made sense. It would explain why Thorin, the notoriously elf-hating dwarf, did not disapprove of Ithilrian’s presence in the company. It also explained why she was the first thing Thorin’s eyes sought when he woke up; why he often laid his bedroll close to hers when they made camp; and why, when he’d overheard them talking together during the long night watches, Thorin’s voice had sounded so soft, so gentle, and so simply content, that Bilbo had to look twice to be sure it was him. _He loves her,_ thought Bilbo. Or at least, there was something like love between them; but whatever it was, clearly nobody else was supposed to know. 

Bilbo let out a short, breathy laugh. He wondered if the other dwarves had realized it too. It was unlikely, he thought. The dwarves were hardly what he’d call a highly observant bunch. Besides, if Thorin hadn’t told them of his affection for the tallest member of their Company, there was likely a good reason. 

Making a mental note to find out more, Bilbo busied himself with his pack. His old clothes had been thoughtfully cleaned and dried by the Rivendell elves, so they could be packed with ease. He made sure that his small elvish sword was safely in its sheath, ready for the morning. He dearly hoped that they wouldn’t encounter any goblins; but there was no harm in being prepared. 

It didn’t take long for Bilbo to finish his packing. He sat around listlessly for a while, watching disinterestedly as Dwalin sharpened his axes, Bofur continued to drink with no seeming care for their early start, and Bifur whittled away at a piece of wood with a small knife. He was bored. Bored, and hungry to boot. No more food appeared to be forthcoming, and Bilbo’s stomach gurgled unhappily. Surely, he thought, Thorin wouldn’t notice if he only scooted away for a few minutes, just to find a snack. 

With that in mind, Bilbo stood up, and crept quietly away from the Company, making sure his steps were as silent as only a bare-footed hobbit could be. He was making for the kitchens, he told himself, trying to remember the route he had taken the day before. But all the corridors looked the same, and it was with a sinking feeling that Bilbo realized that he was, once again, lost. 

He paused beside an open door that led to a balcony. Soft elvish voices were coming from within. With a smile of surprise, he realized that one of those voices belonged to Ithilrian. He stepped forwards to say hello, and to ask if she could once again spare the time to help a hapless hobbit find his supper; but then his brain finally registered the words his ears were hearing, and he stopped dead in his tracks, frozen to the spot. 

~

It had been with her heart thrumming with fury that Ithilrian had stalked away from Gandalf earlier that day. She knew that the wizard had been right: they had a quest to complete, lives were at stake, and going goblin-hunting over the High Pass wasn’t going to get them any closer to Erebor.

_But it’d make me feel an awful lot better,_ her inner thought snarled. The idea of crossing over the place where her sister had been abducted and tortured, without even trying to avenge her, was appalling. So it was with a bitter heart that Ithilrian returned to her rooms, throwing herself into her packing with a vengeance. But gradually, as the sun began to drop, her rage cooled. _Think of Thorin,_ she told herself. _This is his venture, not mine._ She had already made one mistake, by burdening the dwarf king with the sorry tale of her sister’s kidnapping. She did not need to compound the error by allowing her desire for revenge to drag the whole company down into goblin-infested tunnels. 

Eventually, her packing was done. Elrond’s folk had filled her bag with supplies of elvish waybread, as well as replenishing the grey-fletched arrows in her quiver. She stepped out to the balcony, taking a deep breath, and allowing a slow smile to suffuse her face at the sight of the setting sun. The sky was beginning to change, and streaks of golden and orange fire were blooming along the underbelly of the lingering wisps of cloud. It was a beautiful sight. 

‘It is good to see you smile once more, my child.’ 

Ithilrian did not turn at the sound of the soft voice behind her. She had been expecting it, ever since Mithrandir mentioned that a Council had been called.

_‘Ammë,’_ she replied quietly. ‘Did Lord Elrond summon you?’ 

‘He did not,’ Lady Galadriel said. Ithilrian felt a gentle breeze tugging at her robes as her mother came to stand on the balcony, gazing out over the Hidden Valley with eyes that were as blue as the depths of the ocean.

‘Then why are you here, if not for the Council?’ asked Ithilrian. 

The Lady of Lórien smiled. ‘I am here partly for the Council; but it was not the Lord Elrond who called for it. However, I am also here for another reason.’ 

‘What is that?’ 

‘To speak with you, my daughter.’ Galadriel reached out and laid a slender hand on her daughter’s arm. ‘It has been some years since we last talked, Ithilrian; but I can see that your heart has not changed.’ 

‘It has not.’ The younger elf shook her head slowly. ‘As much as you and _ada_ wish it were otherwise.’ She finally looked up, meeting her mother’s steady gaze. Galadriel did not speak for some minutes; only allowed her eyes to roam the face of her youngest daughter, seeking the answers to questions she didn’t need to ask aloud. 

‘I have made my choice,’ Ithilrian added softly, filling the silence that swelled between them like waves. ‘There is no other for me, _ammë.’_

The Lady Galadriel withdrew her searching gaze, turning back towards the view over Rivendell. Ithilrian noticed her mother’s fingers tightening around the stone balcony rail. 

‘If your comrades survive the coming journey, your hearts may still be sundered,’ Galadriel began slowly. ‘If the dragon is defeated, and Thorin Oakenshield made King, and all that you hope for comes true; then you will still have to taste the bitterness of mortality.’ 

The Lady of Lórien turned to her daughter, raising one hand to cup her face tenderly. Ithilrian looked up, deep into her mother’s blue gaze, falling away from her body and into the vision of the future that her mother’s power was offering. Galadriel’s voice wove a sonorous song around her as the familiar backdrop of Imladris faded. 

‘Either by the sword or the slow decay of time, Thorin Oakenshield will die,’ Galadriel was saying. Ithilrian found herself staring at the vision of a tomb in the heart of a mountain, upon which lay the body of Thorin Oakenshield, King Under the Mountain. He looked much older, his hair entirely silver, his stern features weathered like those of an ancient statue; yet still he looked beautiful to the eyes of Ithilrian. A crown was upon his head, and a procession of dwarves was passing in mourning. And there, beside the body of the dwarf she loved, her head sunken in grief, Ithilrian saw herself: veiled, kneeling at the foot of the tomb, as still as one who had been struck to stone.

‘And there will be no comfort for you,’ Galadriel’s voice drifted on. ‘No comfort to ease the pain of his passing. He will come to death, an image of the splendor of the dwarven kings, in glory undimmed before the breaking of the world. But you, my daughter: you will linger on, in darkness and in doubt, as nightfall in winter that comes without a star. There you will dwell, bound to your grief, under the fading trees; until all the world is changed, and the long years of your life are utterly spent.’ 

Ithilrian choked back a sob as the vision faded. She found herself back in Imladris once more; tears rolling freely down her cheeks as the Lady of Lórien withdrew her gaze. 

‘Why did you show me this?’ Ithilrian whispered. 

‘Because I would have you know what is to come, should you continue down this path,’ said Galadriel gently. ‘I have already lost one daughter to grief. Do not force me to lose you too, Ithilrian. Only death awaits you at the end of this road. You must know this.’

‘I do,’ replied Ithilrian, gripping the rail of the balcony so hard her knuckles whitened. ‘I have known it ever since I laid eyes upon him. But I love him, and I have made my choice. This is my path to tread. I shall suffer no other.’ 

A long moment of silence stretched out between them. 

‘Very well,’ said Galadriel eventually. ‘Your heart is set. I see that now.’ 

‘It is.’ Ithilrian groaned, raising a hand to wipe away her tears. ‘I am sorry, _ammë._ It is not my intent to cause you pain.’ 

Lady Galadriel smiled. ‘You need not apologize, child. You have done no wrong.’ She lifted one hand to help dry Ithilrian’s eyes. ‘I am proud of you,’ she whispered softly. ‘I am so proud of you, my daughter. You are stronger and braver than ever I could hope.’ She sighed, stepping back and glancing at the sky. The sun had dropped almost entirely behind the horizon, casting deep purple shadows across the Hidden Valley. 

‘And now I must go,’ she said sadly. ‘It is almost time.’ 

Ithilrian nodded sadly. ‘I wish we had more time. I miss you, and _ada_ as well. Tell him I send my love?’ 

‘Of course.’ Galadriel laid a hand on her daughter’s shoulder for a moment. ‘Farewell, my twilight star. I shall see you again soon. Good luck.’ 

Ithilrian dipped her head. When she raised it again her mother was gone, vanishing swiftly as a wisp of smoke on the morning breeze. With a groan that came straight from the heart, Ithilrian laid her forehead on the cool stone of the balcony rail, sighing in relief; when a small sound from behind her made her jump. 

‘Sorry,’ smiled Bilbo, raising a hand as he stepped through the door. ‘It’s only me. I didn’t mean to startle you.’ 

‘Bilbo,’ sighed Ithilrian. ‘What are you doing here?’ 

‘Oh, um, nothing. Just looking for the kitchens again, I’m afraid.’ He shifted slightly from foot to foot, looking more than a little embarrassed. ‘I snuck away from Thorin to find some food, but I seem to have gotten a little lost.’ 

‘Indeed.’ Ithilrian pulled herself together. ‘Unfortunately, there is no time for us to visit the food halls. Mithrandir will be coming to find you very soon. I shall take you back to the Company.’ She hesitated at sight of Bilbo’s downcast face. ‘Oh, come here,’ she added impatiently. She unbuckled her pack, passing the hobbit a packet of leaf-wrapped waybread. ‘This should tide you over for now. Only take small bites, for it is very filling.’ 

Bilbo broke off a corner and nibbled a bit, before his face lit up in delight. ‘This is lovely!’ he cried. ‘What is it?’ 

_‘Lembas,’_ she replied. ‘Elvish waybread. One small bite is enough to fill the stomach of a grown man.’ She sighed. ‘At least, that’s what the sylvan elves say.’ She eyed the hobbit with amusement. He was bolting down the _lembas_ without a care in the world. ‘Bilbo, may I ask you something?’ she added. 

‘Of course,’ nodded Bilbo between mouthfuls. 

‘Why did you change your mind?’ said Ithilrian. ‘Why did you decide join us?’ 

‘Hmm.’ Bilbo chewed thoughtfully. ‘Do you know, I can’t quite put it into words. I just… woke up, and something inside was tugging me forwards. I don’t know if it was the singing, or a desire for adventure, or to help the dwarves, or…’ he sighed, breaking off and shaking his head. ‘I suppose it makes me sound like a fool, but I believed I was following my heart.’ 

‘On the contrary, it makes you sound wiser than you know.’ Ithilrian smiled gently. ‘I too follow my heart, Bilbo,’ she added softly. ‘I will follow it wherever it may lead me.’ She turned to gaze back out over the valley. 

Bilbo paused in his eating, eyeing the elf maid seriously. ‘You know, most people use that as a metaphor for doing what they want,’ he said carefully. ‘But you don’t, do you?’ 

‘What do you mean?’ Ithilrian turned to Bilbo, looking at him with some guarded surprise.

Bilbo smiled, and shook his head. ‘I mean, that Thorin Oakenshield is your heart, and it’s him that you follow.’ 

The breath hissed between Ithilrian’s teeth as she gasped, glancing around wildly. ‘How did you…? You cannot speak of this, Bilbo!’ 

‘Ah, so that’s what it takes to surprise you!’ said Bilbo jokingly. But he pulled himself together when he noticed the distraught expression on the elf-maid’s face. ‘I’m sorry. Did I say something wrong?’ 

‘I… no.’ Ithilrian sounded utterly bewildered. ‘No, you are entirely correct in your surmise. But I have taken some pains to conceal it. How did you find out? Was it a guess?’ 

‘Partly,’ Bilbo shrugged. ‘I’ve watched you – all of you – over the past few weeks. You all get along well, and care for each other deeply; that much is obvious. But there’s always been something… different, between you and Thorin.’ He shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot. ‘I also… might have heard a little of your conversation just now,’ he admitted. 

‘Conversation?’ Ithilrian arched an eyebrow in question. 

‘Yes. With the tall elf-woman with the yellow hair,’ replied Bilbo, wrinkling his nose in embarrassment. ‘I didn’t mean to pry, honestly, and to be truthful I didn’t understand all of it, but…’ he trailed off, looking a little embarrassed. ‘Sorry,’ he added. 

Ithilrian was still looking at him with some confusion, but her grey gaze gradually softened into a smile. ‘No need to apologize, _mellon nîn._ It would appear I have been more careless than I thought.’ She leaned against the balcony and stretched, arching her back like a cat and allowing her long fall of silver hair to slip over her shoulders. 

‘May I ask you something?’ said Bilbo timidly. 

‘You may.’ Ithilrian turned and smiled at him over her shoulder.

‘How did it happen?’ asked Bilbo. ‘I mean, I never found out how you came to join the dwarves in the first place; but I’m guessing that was when you… you know. I suppose none of the others know?’

‘They do not,’ affirmed Ithilrian. 

‘Hmm.’ Bilbo nodded. ‘And I dare say Thorin wouldn’t want to talk to me about it either…’ 

‘What?’ Ithilrian’s eyes widened and she rounded on the hobbit fiercely. ‘Bilbo, Thorin knows nothing of this. _Nothing._ And it must remain that way.’ 

‘Wh-what?’ stuttered Bilbo, alarmed. ‘But he… that means the two of you aren’t…?’ 

‘We are most assuredly _not,’_ she said firmly. ‘As much as I wish it were otherwise. It is all love and desire on my side; but all friendship, and good companionship, on his.’ Her eyes misted over. ‘He cannot know, Bilbo. For surely, he would be horrified. He would drive me from the Company; and I would lose the love of my life, and my dear companions, in one fell swoop.’ She turned back to the hobbit. ‘You must say nothing of this, Bilbo. Swear to me.’ 

‘I… all right,’ nodded Bilbo, frowning. ‘I shan’t say anything, don’t worry. But you know, I think… I think that you might be wrong. Thorin can be… a bit scary, and fierce, and just downright rude sometimes. But I don’t think he’d drive you away. I don’t think he’d ever do that. He cares for you as well.’ 

‘As a good friend, and nothing more,’ said Ithilrian firmly. ‘I cannot press my luck, Bilbo; else I risk losing everything I hold dear. Surely you can understand.’ She sighed, leaning heavily against the balcony rail. Her shoulders drooped, and she shut her eyes for a moment. 

‘I… can understand. Of course I can. Umm… are you all right, Ithilrian?’ said Bilbo tentatively.

‘I am well, _mellon nîn,’_ she replied. ‘Just a little weary. I am also unused to speaking of this to anybody beside my kin. It has been a burden I am accustomed to bearing alone.’ 

Bilbo snorted, and leaned against the rail next to her. ‘Well, that’s just silly. It’s always better to share these things with somebody, you know. It takes a weight off the mind.’ 

‘What you say make sense,’ said Ithilrian slowly. ‘I… suppose there has been no-one for me to share this with, except my family.’ She shrugged. ‘Who, of course, do not entirely approve. My brother-in-law is skeptical, as you have no doubt observed; my _ada_ is worried and angry; and my _ammë,_ who at least does not forbid me, keeps turning up and giving me dire warnings.’ She snorted in turn, folding her arms and tossing her head moodily. It was a very un-elvish gesture; and one Bilbo suspected she had picked up from her dwarven companions. 

‘Dire warnings?’ asked Bilbo. ‘Warnings about what?’ 

‘You heard some of them just now, did you not?’ Ithilrian asked. ‘You said you overheard me speaking with a tall elf-woman with golden hair. That was my _ammë_ – my mother. You heard what she said.’ 

‘I… of course,’ nodded Bilbo. ‘I should have guessed.’ He glanced up at Ithilrian. She was gazing out over the landscape, a frown creasing her smooth forehead, her lips downturned. Bilbo stifled a chuckle at the sight. 

‘What?’ Her grey eyes turned to him. ‘Something amuses you?’ 

‘No, no,’ smiled Bilbo, shaking his head. ‘It’s just… you look so solemn, staring into the distance like that. You’ve picked up Thorin’s brooding look.’ He nudged her with his elbow. ‘Careful. The last thing we need is the two of you glowering around the place. He’s bad enough as it is.’ 

Ithilrian laughed at that – a low, silvery chuckle. The heaviness seemed to leave her shoulders, and she smiled warmly down at the hobbit. ‘You are full of surprises, my friend. Perhaps it was fate, not chance, that put you in a position to discover my secret.’ 

Bilbo shrugged. ‘I don’t know about that. I’m just a simple hobbit. I’ve little to do with grand adventures, epic love stories, or great heroic quests. But…’ he hesitated, shrugging. ‘I know what it’s like, to… feel strongly for someone, and not have them feel the same way. It’s difficult. And painful. So… all I’m saying is, you can talk to me, if you need to. I won’t tell anybody. But sometimes… it’s just nice to blow off steam, you know?’ 

‘Indeed.’ Ithilrian inclined her head gracefully. ‘I thank you for your generous offer, Bilbo Baggins.’

‘Oh, well,’ Bilbo grinned. ‘There’s nothing we hobbits love more than a hearty meal and a good story to go with it, you know. And I must admit to being very curious about how such a thing could come to pass. An elf falling in love with a dwarf? It’s the stuff of legends.’ He chuckled. ‘I still don’t know how you even came to be caught up in all this dwarvish nonsense in the first place.’ 

‘Then come,’ smiled Ithilrian. ‘After these meetings are over, we shall find a place to speak in private. There I shall tell you the whole sorry tale, if you’re still of a mind to hear it.’ 

‘I’d like that very much,’ replied Bilbo. 

‘Indeed,’ Ithilrian chuckled again, and the lightness seemed to return to her eyes as she pulled away from the balcony. ‘Although I warn you, elvish tongues tend to run on merrily when speaking of their passions. You may find you regret offering me your ear; as I will most likely bore you senseless.’ 

‘We’ll see,’ smiled Bilbo. He offered her his arm politely. ‘Shall we?’ 

‘Indeed,’ Ithilrian laughed again, reaching down carefully and taking his arm with surprising gentleness. ‘Now, we should go, before Thorin is forced to come looking for us. It would be unwise for us to try his temper tonight.’ 

‘Absolutely,’ shuddered Bilbo. ‘But I’ll be sorry to leave this place, you know,’ he added, as the mismatched duo walked slowly away, back towards the dwarves and the continuation of their journey.

It was a strange adventure he’d found himself on, mused Bilbo, as they negotiated the winding corridors of Rivendell. It was throwing up all sorts of unexpected surprises; not least, the promise of some excellent, if unusual, gossip.

But he was damned, Bilbo thought privately, if he was going to simply ignore the fact that Thorin was clearly in love with Ithilrian, even though the willful elf could not seem to see it. _I’m going to fix this,_ thought Bilbo privately, _even if I have to knock their stubborn heads together._ After all, he’d played matchmaker before in the Shire, between some of his shyer cousins. How much harder could this be? 

~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love Rivendell. So… yeah. 
> 
> *ahem*
> 
> Sorry this chapter took a while to post. It's a long one, and it's given me a bit of trouble! But it's done now. Yay!
> 
>  
> 
> Elvish translation notes:
> 
> Ammë = mother  
> Ada = father  
> Mellon nîn = my friend  
> Mae g'ovannen = well met.


	28. The Misty Mountains

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the Company sets off from Rivendell, and encounters a spot of inclement weather…

It was with a heavy heart that Bilbo set out from Rivendell with the Company of Thorin Oakenshield the following morning. Dawn had only just broken overhead, and the entire company was trudging up the steeply sloping path that wound steadily upwards, meandering to and fro along the valleyside. As they walked, Bilbo noticed the lush greenery of the Hidden Valley gradually giving way to sparse, scrubby bushes and irregular tufts of yellowing grasses. Autumn was coming. 

The road took them gradually upwards. Behind lay the warmth and comfort of Elrond’s house; before them lay the uncertainty of the mountain pass. Already Bilbo could see the irregular jagged peaks rising ahead like spires of ill omen. It did nothing to inspire his confidence. 

As they travelled, Bilbo soon realized that he wasn’t the only one feeling somber. The entire company seemed to be in a dour mood. Thorin was stalking ahead at the front of the pack, his shoulders hunched and his head thrust forwards. A grim scowl had been upon his face ever since he’d retuned from the map reading with Lord Elrond and Gandalf; and his glowering snarls seemed to have affected everybody’s mood. All the dwarves were silent and scowling, even the normally rambunctious Fili and Kili. The Misty Mountains seemed too loom ominously before them, like giant jagged teeth rising up to bite at the low-hanging clouds. Bilbo glanced up and groaned, feeling a large drop of rain spatter against his cheek. _As if things weren’t already bad enough,_ he thought miserably. He glanced behind him. Ithilrian was taking long slow strides at the rear of the column, tall and silent and morose. Her head was slightly bowed, and her hood was pulled forwards, so all Bilbo could catch was a glimpse of steely grey eyes and a mouth set in a straight line of grim determination. He wiped the rain from his face, straining to catch one last glimpse of Rivendell, before the last homely house was shrouded by the mist and low-hanging cloud. _Such a wonderful place,_ thought Bilbo morosely. _I wonder if I will ever see it again._

‘I suggest you keep up, Master Baggins.’ 

Thorin’s gruff tones pulled Bilbo from his thoughts. The dwarf king seemed even grumpier than usual, thought Bilbo with a sigh. Whether it was because the presence of all the Rivendell elves had finally worn down what little patience he possessed; or because he was worrying about the challenges that lay within the mountain pass ahead; or because of the black mood that had settled like a cloud over Ithilrian once she had returned to the company, Bilbo did not know. All he knew was that it was far, far too early in the morning to be trudging up the side of some Valar-forsaken mountain, without even the comfort of a hot cooked breakfast or a steaming mug of tea. _Oh well,_ he thought, trying to keep his spirits up. _With any luck the rain will pass us by, and we’ll be able to stop for lunch._

~

Bilbo swore under his breath as his foot slipped for the twelfth time over the past ten minutes. _I should have known better than to hope for any luck,_ he thought miserably. The rain had decidedly not passed by, as he had hoped. Instead, a roiling mass of pitch-black clouds had settled over the mountains, darkening the sky to the colour of wet slate. The rain was beating down harder than anything Bilbo had ever experienced in his life. Great bellows of thunder were rolling through the mountains, echoing and re-echoing through the rocky clefts and peaks, building into great sky-splitting rumbles that sounded as though the very air was being torn in two. Jagged splinters of lightning lanced from peak to peak, scoring bright white lines across the sky that lingered for a moment like the claw-marks of a great wild beast. 

_As if things couldn’t get any worse,_ Bilbo thought viciously, clinging with numb fingers onto the rocky mountain face. _As if heading into potentially-goblin-infested mountains with thirteen grumpy dwarves, a vengeance-hungry elf, and no wizard, wasn’t bad enough. And now, there’s a bloody great big storm too. Fantastic._

The pathway had deteriorated, becoming little more than a narrow stony ledge, which was becoming unpleasantly slippery beneath the rain’s merciless onslaught. Tough as Bilbo’s hobbit feet were, his toes were becoming uncomfortably numb; and the risk of slipping from the ledge, and falling hundreds of feet into the valley below, was becoming distressingly real. 

‘We must find shelter!’ he heard somebody bellow up ahead. 

‘Agreed,’ he muttered, his breath catching in his throat as his foot skidded once again, almost sending him flying off the edge. He felt the breath whoosh from his body as Bofur’s strong arm caught his chest, pulling him backwards into relative safety. 

‘Thank you,’ he gasped. Bofur’s reply was lost to the wind as a huge gust howled along the path, driving the rain straight into their faces. It was through this squinting, rain-filled haze that Bilbo spotted something that made him reach up and rub at his eyes in bewilderment, positive that the lightning was playing tricks on him. 

_The mountains were moving._

‘Well bless me! The legends are true!’ bellowed Bofur, his arm still clamped tightly around Bilbo’s waist. Bilbo didn’t spare a second to mention this, because at Bofur’s words it seemed that half the mountain opposite them raised an enormous, jagged head and shoulders, and appeared to look ponderously around. It moved deceptively slowly, as an avalanche or a lava flow might seem to move slowly from a distance; but it was with ever-increasing horror that Bilbo realized that the rocky ledge they were standing upon was, suddenly, not nearly as stable as it had been a moment ago.

Slowly, agonizingly, and with an earth-shaking groan of splitting, grinding stone, the ledge split apart. Bilbo felt his stomach lurch as the stone giant peeled itself away from the mountainside, taking half of the Company of terrified dwarves with it. 

‘Kili! Grab my hand!’ called Fili, reaching desperately over the ever-widening crevasse as the rising giant tore him away from his brother! ‘Kili!’ 

Kili’s expression of horror as the giant lurched away sent a lead weight plummeting into Bilbo’s gut; as did the look on Ithilrian’s face as she was forced to grab hold of Fili bodily, preventing the young prince from leaning out dangerously far over the abyss. 

‘Fili, no!’ 

‘But my brother!’

‘Hold on!’ 

With a noise like the collapsing of a thousand stone buildings, the two stone giants collided. Huge rocks and chunks of debris were ricocheting everywhere, thundering down dangerously all around them. Bilbo clung on tightly to Bofur, his jaw clenched with terror, as the mountain giant stumbled, falling backwards. 

_‘No!’_

Bilbo dimly heard Thorin’s bellow as the stone giant lurched back into the rock, slamming against what had once been the path. He did not even have time to think. Strong dwarven hands were still on him, dragging him forwards, back onto the blessedly unmoving mountain; before with a terrible, creaking groan the stone giant fell back, plummeting down into the raging sea of rain and clouds below. 

Bilbo flailed desperately at the blank rock face, seeking a hand-hold; but there was none to be found. His foot slipped off the wet rock path; and he found himself falling. He barely had time to think, grabbing at a protruding crag as he fell, his entire body thrumming with terror as his bare feet kicked against thin air.

‘Bilbo! Grab my hand!’ 

He was too frightened to speak. He couldn’t reply to Bofur’s concerned cry, only stare, wide-eyed with horror, at the distorted faces above him, at the hands that were offered to him; hands that were wet and slippery and too far out of reach for him to grab. _Is this it?_ his thoughts whimpered. The wind buffeted at him, reminding him all too vividly of the vast, empty void beneath his scrambling feet. 

Suddenly, a strong hand closed around his shoulder. Powerful muscles twisted and flexed as, with one terrific heave, Thorin hurled the terrified hobbit upwards, into the waiting arms of the rest of the Company. Gasping for air, adrenaline thrumming wildly though his system, Bilbo scrambled back onto the ledge. _Thank the Valar, thank the Valar,_ his terrified thoughts repeated over and over again. 

_‘Thorin!’_

Ithilrian’s scream jolted him back to reality. He turned to face his rescuer, only to be confronted by nothing but empty space. Thorin was dangling, fingers barely grasping the slick stone ledge, having lost his footing swinging Bilbo to safety. 

‘Hold on!’ Dwalin muscled past, grasping Thorin’s arms and heaving him bodily back onto the ledge. Bilbo breathed out a choked sigh of relief. He glanced over to where Ithilrian was kneeling, her arms locked around Fili and Kili, her face white and stricken like somebody who’d seen a ghost. 

‘That was close!’ said Bofur, clapping a hand on Bilbo’s shoulder. ‘I thought we’d lost our burglar!’ 

‘He’s been lost ever since he left home,’ Thorin snarled, heaving himself upright. ‘He should never have come. He has no place amongst us.’ 

With a whirl of his coat the dwarf turned on his heel, brushing past the rest of the company and calling out to Dwalin. Bilbo felt his heart sink down into his toes. Balin shot him a pitying look, shaking his head before following Thorin into the narrow rocky cleft that had been opened up by the stone giant’s fall. 

‘This cave will do,’ he head Thorin announce gruffly. ‘We’ll pass the night in here; continue on when it’s light. If the rain stops, it’ll be safer for us to travel.’ 

Bilbo picked himself up, ignoring a tentative pat on the shoulder from Ori. He kept his gaze downturned, stumbling into the narrow cave and throwing himself down in a corner wearily. He knew Thorin was right. Cruel, perhaps: but right. He was not an adventurer, or a warrior. He wasn’t even a burglar. He did not belong with the Company. 

~

Eventually, the storm died down. In the relative safety of their rocky hideaway, most of the Company slept. 

‘I can take the watch,’ Ithilrian said, hovering anxiously beside Bofur at the cave entrance. ‘Go and get your head down for a few hours. You need the rest.’ 

‘No.’ Thorin’s voice was a low, tired growl. ‘Bofur can take the first, I the second, and you the third watch. There is no sense in any of us wearing ourselves out.’ 

‘Aye lass,’ nodded Bofur. ‘We’re all willing to take our turn. It’s what we signed up for, after all. Well, that and the free beer.’ 

Ithilrian scowled. ‘There is no sleep in me tonight. Nor shall there be, until we are over these thrice-cursed mountains.’ 

‘Why’s that then?’ asked Bofur. 

Ithilrian shook her head irritably. ‘Goblins,’ she muttered. ‘I can smell them. I can _feel_ their presence, within the rock all around us. We have crossed over their borders; and we are now within their territory. I shall not be easy in my mind until we are clear again.’

‘What?’ Bofur’s eyes widened anxiously. He sniffed. ‘I can’t smell anything. Does that mean they’re close?’ 

She shrugged. ‘I cannot say for certain.’ 

‘Why not?’ said Thorin. ‘I need information, Ithilrian. I need to know if we’re safe here.’

‘That is precisely why I’m on edge,’ snapped Ithilrian, pacing angrily back and forth like a caged animal. ‘Their foul stench is everywhere this close to the High Pass. I cannot tell with certainty where they are. They may have remained in their pestilent caverns, far below our feet. But then again, they may not. I pray that it is the former; for if they are close by, then they surely must be aware of our presence. We did quite a lot of shouting a while back.’

‘Then we must be on our guard,’ grunted Thorin. ‘Still, you should go and get some rest. I will wake you when it is time for your watch.’ 

‘Do you not listen to a word I say?’ replied Ithilrian irritably. ‘I cannot sleep, _hîr vuin._ I say that I should take all the watches, so all our companions may be rested for the morning.’ 

‘And _I_ say that you should get some rest,’ snapped Thorin in reply. ‘I will not have you exhausting yourself. You will only slow us down tomorrow.’ 

Ithilrian snarled angrily. ‘ _I_ would not be the one to slow us down, my lord Oakenshield. I can walk twice as far, and fast, as any dwarf; and on far less sleep too. Let me take the watch.’ 

‘No.’ Thorin’s voice dropped to a dangerous growl. ‘I will not have you endangering this Company out of sheer stubbornness.’ 

‘I… I’m just going to sit here,’ muttered Bofur, tugging his hat down firmly over his ears and attempting to look inconspicuous. ‘Just sit here, and not say a word. Don’t mind me.’ 

Ithilrian sighed with frustration. Anger was churning deep within her gut. ‘I am not the one being stubborn here,’ she hissed. 

Thorin scowled ferociously. ‘I will not argue with you, elf-maid.’ 

Ithilrian bared her teeth angrily. ‘Will you not? Will you not even deign to use my name now, my lord Oakenshield?’ She swallowed hard, fighting down the rage that rose in her throat like bile. ‘Enough. I am spent.’ She turned and strode away, towards the rear of the cave. She slumped down angrily, resting her head against the rocky wall and closing her eyes. 

She did not open them at the sound of approaching booted feet. She did not open them even when said booted feet halted directly in front of her, and waited. She kept her lids stubbornly closed. 

‘Ithilrian.’ Thorin’s voice was very low, barely on the verge of hearing. ‘Ithilrian, please look at me.’ 

She sighed. There was a slight crack in the dwarf king’s voice that she was powerless to resist. She opened both eyes tiredly. 

‘What ails you?’ asked Thorin, with unaccustomed gentleness. He settled himself cross-legged on the floor in front of her. ‘In all the time I’ve known you, I’ve never seen you raise your voice in anger. Talk to me, Ithilrian.’ 

‘I…’ she groaned. ‘It is of no importance.’ 

‘On the contrary,’ replied Thorin. ‘It may be of the greatest importance.’ He hesitated, seeming unsure of what to say next. Ithilrian looked up, expecting to still see anger or frustration in the dwarf king’s eyes. But there was neither of those things: only a weary compassion. 

‘It’s because of her, isn’t it,’ Thorin murmured. ‘This is where your sister was taken.’ 

‘Somewhere around here, yes,’ Ithilrian whispered. ‘I do not know the precise details. But we must be close.’ She groaned, leaning forwards and burying her face in her hands. ‘I can _feel_ them everywhere, Thorin: the creatures that kidnapped and tortured Celebrían. They are close.’ She hesitated. ‘I am on edge. More than that, _mellon nîn:_ I am full of rage. I feel it thundering through my blood like a river of fire. I am struggling to control it.’ 

‘I understand,’ muttered Thorin. ‘I suspect I shall feel much the same, when we approach the Desolation where I watched my people burning.’ 

Ithilrian nodded. ‘Perhaps. But there is one other thing.’ She glanced sideways, unwilling to look directly into Thorin’s gleaming sapphire eyes. ‘I… we nearly lost you today, my king. Not only that, but Fili too. You did not see, perhaps; but if I hadn’t grabbed him, he’d have thrown himself across that gap to reach Kili. It is… presumptuous of me, perhaps; but I have become very fond of those two. As if they were my own kin.’ Her eyes softened, and she gazed over to where the two brothers were curled up next to one another, snoring uproariously. ‘They are so… small. So young,’ she murmured, more to herself than to Thorin. ‘They should not even be here. Yet here they are.’ 

‘I know,’ murmured Thorin. ‘I know. They’ve only just come of age, the pair of them.’ 

‘So why did you bring them along?’ she asked. 

‘Because I could not bear to leave them behind.’ Thorin groaned, running his fingers distractedly through his long, dark mane. ‘It was selfish, perhaps. But I am the only family they have left, Ithilrian. My grandfather is long dead, slaughtered by a monster outside the gates of Durin’s sacred halls. My father is dead, mad, missing – who knows? And everybody else – my brother, my sister, and their father: all incinerated, crushed beneath the talons of Smaug before they could flee from Erebor.’ 

‘You raised them?’ asked Ithilrian softly. ‘Both of them? All alone?’ 

‘Aye.’ Thorin clenched his fists. ‘It was one among the many burdens I was forced to shoulder during our exile. But this one at least, I took on willingly. For a long time, my sister’s sons were the only light in my life.’ He smiled: a small, fond smile. ‘Fili takes after his father, Vílí. He was golden-haired too, and a jeweler by trade. But Kili takes after his mother. The dark hair, the quickness to laugh, his mischievous nature. That was Dís all over. She always had such a lovely smile.’ 

Ithilrian looked up at Thorin, watching as the recollection softened his harshly chiseled features into a smile so beautiful, so tender, that momentary tears stung her eyes. ‘I am sure she did, _mellon nîn,’_ she whispered softly, blinking away the threatening moisture. ‘In fact, I believe I can see the ghost of it, even now.’

‘You can?’ muttered Thorin. ‘How?’ 

Ithilrian smiled, allowing herself a small chuckle. ‘Look into a mirror, Thorin Oakenshield. Perhaps you have forgotten what your own smile looks like.’ She felt a faint flush beginning to fill her cheeks at the look of bewilderment that flickered over Thorin’s face. ‘It is true, is it not?’ she added. ‘You smile only rarely, _hîr vuin,_ but when you do I can see the likeness between yourself and Kili. So when you tell me that he and Dís share the same smile…’ she tailed off, watching understanding blossom in Thorin’s eyes, smiling even more widely as he broke into a low chuckle.

‘I suppose so,’ he murmured. ‘I had not thought of it like that before.’ 

Ithilrian nodded. ‘The ones we love never truly leave us,’ she said gently. ‘They will always be there in our thoughts and hearts; in the lives of their loved ones, if only we take the time to look for them.’ 

Thorin shook his head. ‘When you speak to me like that…’ he began hoarsely, before tearing his gaze away and glaring at the cave entrance, where the slumped figure of Bofur could still dimly be seen. ‘We… should both take our rest,’ he added, so quietly that even Ithilrian’s ears could only just make out his words. ‘It will take much time and energy to cover the High Pass tomorrow. I shall suffer no arguments this time. You must rest, _ghivashel.’_

Ithilrian shivered. ‘The High Pass,’ she muttered. ‘I have avoided it for so long. I must confess it fills me with dread, Thorin. Dread, and rage in equal measure.’ She tugged at her cloak distractedly. ‘Celebrían…’

‘I know.’ Thorin reached out, placing one large, surprisingly gentle hand upon her shoulder, squeezing it ever so lightly, before withdrawing. ‘Do not fear. I will let no harm befall you. Do you understand?’ His blue eyes burned as he spoke. ‘I know your grief, Ithilrian. I feel it as though it were my own. I give you my word; I will not allow the same fate to befall you. I swear it.’ 

‘I… believe you,’ Ithilrian replied slowly. 

‘Good.’ Thorin’s brief smile sent a jolt of something warm and molten through Ithilrian’s chest. ‘Then perhaps you will finally do as I say, and take some rest.’ 

‘I shall,’ Ithilrian nodded, hesitating for a moment. ‘Thorin… you called me something a moment ago. A word I did not understand. What was it?’ 

Thorin grinned. ‘We dwarves have not always spoken Westron. We have our own ancient language, Khuzdul: which is a secret not taught to outsiders or non-dwarves.’

‘So… does that mean you will not tell me?’ Ithilrian asked, one eyebrow raised. 

Thorin shook his head. ‘No. At least, not today.’ 

Ithilrian nodded slowly. ‘Very well.’ She tilted her head to one side and smiled. ‘I hope to find out eventually, Thorin. After all, I am an elf. I’ve had many years in which to learn patience. And,’ she added, ‘if it was something insulting, then I _will_ find out; and you will regret it.’ 

Thorin chuckled. ‘It wasn’t an insult.’ 

‘It had better not have been. Otherwise, I’m sure there are some choice words in Sindarin that I could cast in your direction.’ Ithilrian raised a hand to her mouth as a wide yawn stretched over her face. ‘By the Valar, I’m tired,’ she muttered. 

‘About time you slept,’ grunted the dwarf. He stood up, brushing down his coat, preparing to return to his spot near the cave entrance. ‘I’ll wake you when it’s time for your watch. You’ll take the last night shift till dawn.’ 

‘Very well.’ Ithilrian settled herself more comfortably against the cave wall, tugging her pack forwards to use as a pillow. ‘I look forward to it.’ 

‘Liar.’ Thorin laughed. ‘I’ll see you in six hours.’ 

~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again folks! So happy to be writing again after having a bit of an Xmas break. So here's a new chapter. Hope you all like it. Goblins next... ^_^ 
> 
>  
> 
> Translation notes: 
> 
> Mellon nîn = my friend (sindarin)  
> Hîr vuin = my lord (sindarin)  
> Ghivashel = treasure of treasures (khuzdul)
> 
> (Thorin's breaking out the khuzdul… seems like Ithil's getting a taste of her own medicine! Teehee!)


	29. Goblin Town

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Thorin and Co. get unceremoniously dumped into the fetid caverns of Goblin Town…

It was only some time after Thorin had settled down, and his breathing had evened out, that Bilbo decided it was safe to make his move. 

Under different circumstances, he’d be happy for Thorin and Ithilrian. They were both still being rock-headedly stubborn by the sound of it; but anyone who’d been eavesdropping on that muted conversation (not that he’d been eavesdropping… well, not deliberately at least) would realize that some form of bond had developed between those two.

However, Bilbo was currently feeling anything other than happy. He was cold, wet, miserable, and exhausted, as well as feeling utterly dispirited. He’d had enough – more than enough – of adventures, and all that they entailed. Well, nearly all, at any rate. He didn’t want to be stuck halfway up a mountain, with stone giants lurking just outside the cave door, and the threat of goblins constantly looming over them. He wanted to be somewhere warm, somewhere cozy, with good food, a hot fire, and a kettle that was just beginning to sing. 

He wanted to be back in Rivendell. 

It was like a calling, the way that the beauty of the elven city was tugging at his heart. During his wanders with Ithilrian he had seen many of the marvels of the Hidden Valley; but by her own admission there was much she hadn’t shown him, simply because they had run out of time. Bilbo knew it would likely take him an entire lifetime to explore that place. Luckily, that was something he’d be more than happy to do. 

So, with Thorin’s harsh words still needling at him, Bilbo pulled on his pack and picked up his stick, moving as soundlessly as possible. Thorin was slumped down against the cave wall, and Ithilrian was lying motionless on her side. Both appeared to have finally fallen asleep, the same as the rest of the Company. If he was careful, and quiet, he could just slip past… 

‘Where d’you think you’re going?’ 

Bilbo stopped, biting his lip in distress. ‘Back to Rivendell,’ he muttered, refusing to turn around and look Bofur in the eye. The normally cheerful dwarf leapt to his feet, a look of horror on his face as he shuffled towards Bilbo, waving his hands in a placating manner. 

‘No, you can’t turn back now! You’re part of the company, you’re one of us!’ he cried. 

‘I’m not though, am I?’ Bilbo swallowed hard, trying to ignore the pain beginning to clench around his chest, and the wounded expression on Bofur’s face. ‘Thorin said I should never have come; and he was right.’ He sighed. ‘I’m not a Took, I’m a Baggins. I don’t know what I was thinking. I should never have run out of my door.’ 

‘Oh, you’re homesick!’ Bofur reeled backwards. ‘I understand!’ 

‘No, you don’t! You don’t understand!’ Bilbo hissed. The anger, upset, and frustration that had been building up inside him finally broke free. ‘It’s not as simple, as clear-cut as all that! I mean, look at me! What do you see?’ 

Bofur frowned, looking Bilbo up and down. ‘I see a good hobbit. A brave fellow, who ran out his door to help folk who were in need,’ he replied softly. 

‘I…’ Bilbo mouthed silently for a moment. ‘That… was not what I was expecting,’ he said. 

‘Aye? Well that’s the thing about dwarves,’ smiled Bofur. ‘We’re always full of surprises.’ 

‘I’m beginning to realize that.’ Bilbo bowed his head wearily. ‘Still, you’re… you’re _dwarves._ Bound by loyalty, honour, blood ties, or whatever. Except Ithilrian, obviously; but… she’s got her own issues. The point is…’ Bilbo hesitated, looking up into the gentle brown eyes that had haunted his waking hours for far too long now; into the softly crinkling smile that was the only thing that had made him feel warm, comforted, even occasionally welcome on the long and difficult road they had faced so far. ‘The point… is…’ he tailed off. 

‘Yes?’ Bofur nodded expectantly, his kind smile broadening, making Bilbo feel like his insides were beginning to melt. 

‘I…’ Bilbo stopped. ‘You know, I’ve quite forgotten what it was I was about to say.’ 

‘Ah, well it can take you like that sometimes,’ nodded Bofur sagely. ‘But please, Bilbo… don’t leave. I’d miss ye, if you were gone.’ 

‘You would?’ Bilbo raised his eyebrows. 

‘Of course!’ Bofur nodded emphatically. ‘Besides, you’d never make it back down the mountain path alive in the dark. I’d hate to think of you lyin’ out there with a broken neck or something.’ He clapped a heavy, companionable hand on the hobbit’s shoulder. 

‘Oh.’ Bilbo swallowed hard. ‘Well that’s…comforting, I think?’ 

Bofur shrugged, grinning. ‘As long as you aren’t still thinking of running off.’ 

‘I…’ Bilbo shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot. ‘Well, you’ve ruined my plan to disappear quietly and without anybody knowing, that’s for certain. But if I don’t leave now, I don’t know when I’ll next get the chance.’ 

‘You mean…?’ Bofur’s face fell. ‘You really do want to leave us?’ His jaunty smile vanished, and his shoulders seemed to slump. He looked older, Bilbo realized suddenly. Older, and sadder, than he had a few seconds ago. ‘I had thought that maybe… there might be somethin’ to keep you here. With us. With… me.’ 

‘With… what?’ Bilbo stuttered. ‘You mean, you… you? Really?’ 

‘Ach, forget I said anything,’ muttered Bofur, his face flushing crimson. He reached up and tugged awkwardly at one of the flaps of his hat. ‘I’m sorry, Bilbo. I wish you all the luck in the world.’ 

‘Wait! No no no, you don’t just get to say something like that and then tell me to forget it!’ hissed Bilbo. His heart was fluttering, and something hot and tingly was thrumming up and down his spine. ‘You mean you liked... and you never said? You never told me?’ 

Bofur shrugged, keeping his eyes averted from the angry hobbit’s accusing stare. ‘I didn’t want to bother you. Not with everything that’s been going on recently. I just thought that… I mean, I know I’m a dwarf, but in time, maybe…?’ 

For the first time since they’d left Rivendell, Bilbo smiled. It was a warm, delighted smile, that he could feel spreading foolishly over his face as he reached out and tugged gently on Bofur’s arm, compelling the dwarf to look at him. ‘Bofur…’ 

‘Wha…’ the dwarf turned, meeting Bilbo’s gaze. He looked surprised at the expression on the hobbit’s face; which turned slowly into a tentative delight that sent a jolt of something warm into the pit of Bilbo’s stomach. ‘You… really?’ 

‘Yes,’ smiled Bilbo. He fought down the urge to begin laughing hysterically. ‘It seems there might be something – someone – who could persuade me to stay, after all.’ 

‘Is that so?’ replied Bofur, whose grin was by now so wide it was in danger of splitting his face in two. ‘Well, in that case…’ he leaned forwards, just as Bilbo stepped in closer, wrapping one tentative hand around the hobbit’s waist. ‘Wait… what’s that?’ he added, pulling back slightly and eyeing the hilt of Bilbo’s small elvish sword suspiciously. ‘It’s… glowing?’ 

Bilbo paused, glancing downwards in bewilderment. Bofur was right. A pale blue light seemed to be coming from within the scabbard. He swallowed hard, pulling the sword a little way out, allowing the light to spill forth and illuminate the rest of the cave. Too late he remembered the words of Gandalf. _‘The blade is of elvish make, which means it will glow blue if orcs or goblins are nearby.’_

Realization hit him like a bucket of iced water, as frozen terror slithered down his spine. A strange, soft hissing sound reached his ears. Both he and Bofur looked down. A long, narrow indent was appearing in the floor, and the sand beneath their feet was shifting, pouring away as though through some hidden crevasse. 

‘Oh no…’ 

‘Wake up!’ Thorin was on his feet. Bilbo didn’t even have time to realize that the dwarf king must have been awake the whole time, and listening to their entire conversation. ‘Wake up!!’ 

Roused by his sudden shout, the dwarves and Ithilrian were awake in an instant. But before any of them could grab their packs or lay hands on a weapon, the floor gave way. 

Down, down, they plummeted, dwarves, elf, hobbit and baggage, all falling through the cunningly-disguised goblin trap. Through a makeshift stone chute they rattled, helter-skelter through the air, until with an ungainly _flump_ they all landed in a twisting, groaning heap on a ramshackle wooden platform far beneath the earth. Except, Bilbo realized too late, it was not so much a platform, as a crude cage, fashioned to look like a great clawed arm. 

‘Look out!’ Thorin bellowed. A veritable stream of goblins was pouring towards them, pale and bloated in the ill-lit cavern, gnashing their deformed teeth and shrieking with glee, as they grasped at their new captives with clammy hands. 

Thorin glanced wildly around, struggling to throw off the goblins. The entire company was being pinched and grabbed at, and their weapons were being stolen from their respective sheathes and belts. He swung out, and his fist connected with something soft and squishy, as he felt the belt holding Orcrist tugged from his waist.

It had all happened too fast. One minute, he had been laying down peacefully, smiling ruefully at Bilbo and Bofur’s fumbling conversation; the next minute, there were goblins everywhere. Their pallid flesh and bulbous eyes filled his wavering vision, and their fetid stench made his stomach churn. He flailed wildly, lashing his fists and feet at anything and everything that laid hands upon him; but through sheer weight of numbers the goblins held him down, pulling him along helplessly. He glanced sideways to see that the rest of the company was faring exactly the same. Four goblins were pulling viciously at Kili’s arms and hair, practically dragging the youngest Durin along the narrow walkway. Thorin felt rage surge within him at the sight.

Then he remembered Ithilrian. 

Twisting his head, he struggled to catch a glimpse of her. She was a little way behind him, carried along by the current of goblins as well, her long limbs weighed down by even more of the ghastly creatures. She was struggling as best she could; but Thorin knew well that the elf’s slender limbs lacked the dense musculature and brute strength of a dwarf; and as such, there was nothing she could do. 

Along they went, across the sprung bridges and cunningly made platforms that spanned the enormous underground caverns of the goblin’s lair. The air was filled with their triumphant shrieks and squawks. _Oh no,_ Thorin thought, as he saw where they were headed. _This is not good._

Before them was a central platform larger than the rest, which all the winding pathways seemed to intersect with. Upon this platform sat a primitive throne; and upon this throne sat one of the most disgusting sights Thorin Oakenshield had ever laid eyes upon. 

The Great Goblin was monstrous. Grotesquely overweight, his wobbling chin dangling over a diseased-looked and pustulous body. He leaned heavily on a staff topped with a ram’s skull, and upon his head sat a primitive crown, which looked as though it had been cobbled together out of twisted scraps of metal and splinters of bleached bone. 

‘Who would be so bold as to come armed into my kingdom?’ he bellowed. ‘Spies? Thieves? Assassins?’ 

‘Dwarves, your malevolence!’ cried a small goblin. 

‘Dwarves?’ cried the Goblin King, rearing up to his full height. 

‘Dwarves, and this!’ the goblin tugged at its fellows, and Ithilrian was pulled forwards. ‘We found ‘em on the front porch!’ 

‘Well don’t just stand there!’ cried the Goblin King. ‘Search them!’ He leaned forwards, as Ithilrian was shoved towards the front of the platform. Thorin ground his teeth. ‘And what’s this?’ He prodded her in the chest with his staff. ‘You smell… somewhat familiar. What are you doing with dwarves in my domain, she-elf?’ 

Thorin glanced up at Ithilrian, and winced. Her face was contorted into a rictus of pure fury. Her grey eyes flashed like shards of polished steel as a torrent of furious sindarin spewed from her lips. Her entire body was quivering with rage. But the Goblin King only laughed. 

‘You’ll have to do better than that,’ he sneered. ‘Not all of us speak your tongue. If you’re going to threaten me, at least do it in words we can all understand!’ 

‘Filth!’ she snapped, switching to Westron. ‘Pestilence! I shall rend your head from your shoulders, I will claw your flesh from your bones, I will lay your innards open so the crows may feast upon them!’ She was snarling, the words tumbling over themselves, incoherent with rage. Her head was thrust forwards and her teeth bared as she struggled to throw off the smaller goblins that held her down.

‘Oho!’ cried the Goblin King, laughing uproariously. ‘We have a feisty one here!’ He leaned forwards again, taking a long, loud sniff. ‘You definitely smell familiar. Have I tortured you before, hmm? Or one of your kin, perhaps?’ 

Ithilrian’s only reply was to launch herself forwards. Somehow she had managed to twist an arm free, which she brought around in a wide arc, slamming her open hand into the Goblin King’s face. Her nails tore four long, livid gashes across his left eye and cheek, and the crown was knocked from his head, to go tumbling down into the abyss. 

‘You…! You dare!’ snarled the Goblin King, rearing back. His bloated face contorted in anger and he lashed out with his staff, slamming the ram’s skull hard against the side of Ithilrian’s head. The fragile elf dropped like a broken doll. 

‘No!’ Thorin’s anguished bellow was lost among the shouts that rose from the rest of the dwarves. _I have failed her,_ his thoughts wailed, churning round and around in his head. _Please Mahal, let her not be dead…!_

‘Elves,’ sneered the Great Goblins. ‘No backbone at all.’ He turned away from the limp form of Ithilrian. ‘We’ll deal with her later. Nice and slowly, like the last one.’ He returned his attention to the furious, shouting dwarves. ‘And you still haven’t answered my question. What are you doing in these parts?’ 

Thorin growled in the back of his throat. He could not tear his eyes away from the elf’s crumpled body. The rest of the Company went collectively silent.

‘Speak!’ bellowed the Goblin King. Still, the dwarves said nothing. ‘Very well then!’ he cried. ‘If they won’t talk, we’ll make them squawk!’ He brandished his staff at the screaming mass of goblins that lined the precarious walkways above them. ‘Bring up the Mangler! Bring up the Bone-Breaker!’ An evil grin spread across his face as he gestured towards Ori. ‘Start with the youngest!’ 

‘Wait!’ Thorin bellowed. Silence fell like a stone. He shouldered his way through goblins and dwarves alike, gathering the tattered remains of his dignity around him like a shield. 

‘Well, well, well!’ chuckled the Goblin King as he stepped forwards. ‘Look who it is! Thorin, son of Thrain, son of Thror, King Under the Mountain!’ The goblin’s hideous chin wobbled as he bent low in a sweeping sarcastic bow. ‘Oho! But I’m forgetting, you don’t have a mountain any more. And, you’re not a king. Which makes you… nobody, really.’ 

Thorin ground his teeth, but held his tongue. His fingers twitched, longing to close around the hilt of a weapon, any weapon, to shut this foul creature’s mouth once and for all.

‘I know someone who would pay a pretty price for your head,’ the Goblin King continued softly, narrowing his eyes. ‘Just a head,’ he added, with a sneering chuckle. ‘Nothing attached. Perhaps you know of whom I speak? An old enemy of yours. A pale orc, astride a white warg...’ 

‘Azog the Defiler was destroyed.’ Thorin gritted the words out from between clenched teeth. ‘He was slain in battle long ago!’ 

‘So you think his defiling days are done, do you?’ chuckled the Goblin King. He let out an ugly, throaty laugh, turning to a tiny chittering goblin that seemed to be acting as scribe and messenger. ‘Send word to the Pale Orc. Tell him I have found his prize.’ 

The tiny goblin sped away, and the dwarves were left in a huddle on the platform. Goblins jostled them from left and right, keeping them away from the edges, and away from the pile of loot and weaponry that they had taken from the dwarves earlier. After several minutes a distant creaking and rumbling could be heard, only just audible over the shrieking, chattering goblinfolk. 

‘Aha!’ the Goblin King cried, raising his head and cupping a warty hand around one ear theatrically. ‘I think I hear my favourite toys arriving.’ He leered at Thorin, licking his lips gleefully before breaking into an ugly song. 

_‘Bones will be shattered, necks will be wrung!_  
_You will bleed in the darkness, from racks you’ll be hung!_  
_You will die down here and never be found,_  
_Down in the deeps of Goblin Town!’_

The song sent a shiver of horror down Thorin’s spine as the words sunk in, and to his right he spotted several large, ramshackle contraptions being hauled along the walkways. They meant to torture them, he realized. Unless by some miracle they could escape, his entire company would meet the same fate as Ithilrian’s sister, deep in the bowels of the earth where no one would find their corpses. 

The words he had spoken to Ithilrian mere hours before swirled before him mockingly. _‘I know your grief. I feel it as though it were my own. I give you my word; I will not allow the same fate to befall you. I swear it.’_ He closed his eyes, biting his lip hard enough to draw blood. Balin, who was the closest to her, had managed to pass on a whispered message: the elf was not dead, but she had been knocked unconscious. Thorin groaned. Perhaps, in this situation, that was no bad thing. At least she was not awake to hear the cruel, taunting words; to see with her own eyes the instruments of torture being dragged closer, which still bore stains of blood on them. 

As the goblins continued to gibber and shriek, Thorin stole a sideways glance at Ithilrian. She was lying in a crumpled heap; her head twisted sideways, her silver braids spilling over the filthy platform. Even in the dim light of the goblin caverns, her hair seemed to glimmer faintly. _I’m sorry, my Twilight Star,_ thought Thorin in anguish. _It was the worst decision I ever made, to bring you upon this quest. If we survive this, I will never forgive myself._

Suddenly, the breath seemed to catch in his throat, as he noticed a thin sliver of grey gleaming beneath the elf’s eyelids. She wasn’t unconscious. She was awake. She caught Thorin’s eye; and guilt dropped like a stone into the pit of the dwarf king’s stomach. _I promised that I would not let this happen,_ his inner thought snarled. _I swore to protect her, to save her from her sister’s fate. We must escape, or I will have failed. I’ll have failed them all._

Aside from her eyes, the elf remained still, feigning unconsciousness. She appeared expressionless, emotionless. Only the faint twitch of the muscles in her jaw told Thorin precisely how much pent-up rage was boiling and churning within her, like the molten heart of a great volcano; waiting for the right moment to burst asunder, and flood the land with fire.

A sudden commotion rose among the goblins. One of them had begun to draw Orcrist partly from its sheath, only to throw the sword down once again with a horrible screech. Goblins scattered away from the bared blade, as though it had been a poisonous snake.

‘I know that sword!’ bellowed the Great Goblin, rearing back. ‘It is the Goblin-Cleaver! The Biter! The blade that sliced a thousand necks!’ He heaved himself back onto his makeshift throne, flailing wildly. ‘Slash them! Bleed them! Kill them all!’ He gesticulated madly towards Thorin. ‘Cut off his head!’ 

Thorin found himself grabbed and pinned, pulled over onto his back. He struggled, looking up at the slavering goblin that was standing over him, brandishing a thin, jagged knife. He braced himself. _This is it, this is it, this is it…_

He averted his eyes, sliding his head sideways, still kicking. If he was about to die, then his last sight on Middle Earth wasn’t going to be that of a sniveling goblin; it was going to be the face of the woman he loved. His eyes met Ithilrian’s. ‘Ithilri… I… I lov…’ he choked, gasping against the hands that were pressing against his throat, cutting off his air. 

_Thorin._

The elf’s soft voice sounded in his mind, with a clarity that went beyond the shrieks of the goblins, and the panicked shouts of the dwarves. She was calling to him, sending her thoughts out to him. 

_Be ready._

Her words resounded in his head. _I am,_ he tried to think back fiercely, wondering if she could hear him, bracing himself against the wooden slats of the trembling platform. _I am ready, for whatever may come…_

The knife rose, but did not fall. 

A great blast shook through the cavern, filling the space with a bright white light. Goblins were hurled from the platforms and walkways by the dozen, as a great cold wind seemed to gust over them. Thorin gasped, feeling the grasping hands being torn from his throat, as his would-be executioner was pitched into the cavernous darkness below. Even the Goblin King was thrown violently backwards, crumpling against the foot of his throne in a large, ungainly heap. 

Thorin sat up, clutching at his throat; and there, blessedly solid amongst the guttering torches and settling dust, was a silhouette he had never been happier to see. 

‘Take up arms,’ came a great, rolling voice, as Gandalf stepped forwards, with his staff in one hand and the sword Glamdring unsheathed in the other. ‘Fight! _Fight!’_

With a great bellow, Thorin pulled himself to his feet. His hand found Orcrist, the smooth curved hilt practically leaping into his eager grasp. He whirled, tugging the blade free. The nearest goblins fell headless. 

‘Ithilrian!’ he called, looking wildly around. But he need not have worried. The elf was on her feet, a dagger in each hand. She was tearing through the goblins like a wolf through new-born lambs, blades whirling and spinning, dealing death with every turn. 

‘This way!’ Gandalf cried, sweeping one goblin aside with his staff and stabbing another with Glamdring. 

‘He wields the Foe-Hammer! The Beater!’ whimpered the Goblin King, cowering back against the foot of his throne. The dwarves were all calling out to one another, tossing weapons back and forth, dishing out painful punishments to anything foolish enough to charge at them. 

‘Thorin!’ bellowed Nori. ‘Look out!’ 

Thorin whirled, raising Orcrist high as the Goblin King leapt towards him, aiming a sweeping blow at the dwarf’s head with his staff. Thorin held his ground, blocking with his sword. With a ringing clang, the staff bounced off Orcrist’s keen edge, sending its owner toppling backwards, down over the edge of the platform, and into the waiting abyss. 

It only took seconds for the Company to regain their feet, and clear the immediate area. The dwarves were all lashing out with enthusiasm, and Gandalf was dealing death left, right and center with both sword and staff. Ithilrian’s daggers were drenched and dripping, black and slick with goblin blood.

‘Follow me!’ called Gandalf, hurrying towards one of the walkways. ‘Quick!’ The dwarves and Ithilrian all began to run towards the wizard, who in turn began to hurtle down the unstable path, leading them away from the seething mass of howling goblins that was beginning to descend. ‘Run!’ 

They hurtled along the unstable paths, feet pounding, the breath heaving in all their collective lungs. Goblins appeared as if from nowhere, blocking their path, clawing at them viciously as they clambered up from the lower levels or dropped on the Company from above. But if there’s one thing dwarves have, it’s momentum. Once they start running, it’s wise not to get in their way. Goblins fell, shrieking and wailing, as they were belted by hammers, stabbed at by swords, or in many cases simply trampled underfoot. Gandalf was leading them, stabbing and slashing; and Ithilrian was holding the rear, her long legs easily keeping pace with the hurrying dwarves, occasionally leaping up and over low-hanging platforms to deal swift death to any goblin within arm’s reach, before dropping back down to keep running with the Company. 

Thorin barely had time to think. He didn’t know where they were headed; only that they were running as fast as their legs would carry them. Gandalf seemed to know the way, taking left and right turns seemingly at random; but Thorin did not question him, deciding to trust the wizard’s knowledge. He still had no idea how Gandalf had appeared in the nick of time to save them; but so long as they made it out alive, he would make it his business to find out. 

He glanced backwards. The goblins were still racing after them, faces contorted into gibbering rage. He ducked to one side, dodging a blow aimed at his head, before leaping forwards with Orcrist and skewering two goblins with a single thrust. The elvish blade was practically glowing with delight, featherlight in his hands, seeming to leap and dance from throat to throat in an arc of shimmering silver. They cut a bloody path through the goblin hoard, leaping from platform to platform, dropping from walkway to walkway, even severing the ropes that held one platform in place and using it to swing over to the other side of the cavern, in one particularly memorable instance that made Thorin’s stomach lurch. But at least that meant their feet were once again on solid rock, instead of the flimsy walkways; and as Gandalf’s staff flashed, dislodging a huge boulder that began to roll down the slope before them, crushing any goblin in its path, Thorin felt his breathing beginning to ease. _We may yet get out of this alive,_ he thought grimly, cleaving the skull of a goblin that was scrabbling at his flank. _We just need to keep going._

They ran for what seemed like an age, through twisting tunnels and criss-crossing paths. As he fought, Thorin kept an eye on the rest of the company. They seemed to be fighting well, and showing no signs of tiring. Dwalin appeared to be having the time of his life, roaring fit to burst, lashing out with his twin axes Grasper and Keeper, dealing out deathblows as though they were going out of fashion. Thorin even managed to spare a moment for a swell of pride as he watched Fili skillfully disarm and disembowel a goblin that sprang up before him, without even breaking his stride. And as for the elf… 

Thorin had already seen her in a fight, a decade hence when she had travelled with them through the lowlands. He had already admired the speed and ease with which she had held her own against an orc pack. But watching her now from the corner of his eye, he realized that in comparison, her fighting style back then had been calm and calculated. Now, with rage blazing hot and fierce inside her, Thorin watched Ithilrian move like a being possessed. Her knives blurred, and her face was set into a wolfish smile as she spun and ran with consummate ease, leaving a trail of dead and dying goblins in her wake. Not one goblin was overlooked; not one throat was left uncut. She moved like molten silver, swift and deadly, burning through the goblin ranks like a hot knife through butter. 

‘Look out!’ came a sudden cry. They were running across yet another walkway, heading towards the far side of a narrow cavern, when with an earsplitting roar the Goblin King burst through the wooden slats before them, hauling himself up from the depths. His face was crooked with anger, and the slashes Ithilrian had left on his face were still livid and dripping. He raised his great bulk high, towering over the dwarves, even over Gandalf, who was still in the lead. 

‘You thought you could escape me?’ he bellowed, swiping at Gandalf with his skull-topped staff. The wizard was forced to fall back, to dodge the crushing blows. ‘What are you goi – ’ 

He never managed to finish the sentence. Ithilrian hurtled forward in a blur of grey and silver, barely breaking her stride as she leaped onto the shoulders of Bofur, Dori, Gloin and then finally Dwalin. The expression of satisfaction on her face was terrible to behold as, without hesitation, she slipped lightly past Gandalf and buried both daggers up to their hilts in the Goblin King’s throat, severing his jugular. A strangled moan fell from the gargantuan creature’s mouth, as black blood began to seep forwards like a river as Ithilrian withdrew her blades, twisting them as she did for good measure. The river became a torrent; and with one final gurgle, the Goblin King fell dead. 

‘Well, that’ll do it,’ said Gandalf approvingly. Ithilrian glanced back at the wizard, a wild grin on her face. But before any more words could be exchanged, the fragile walkway began to creak and groan alarmingly, before the whole back section broke away, sending the entire Company plummeting into the deeps. 

They skidded and rattled down the side of the cavern, the platform barely holding together. The dwarves were all bellowing and shouting, clinging onto both the platform and each other for dear life. Gandalf had one hand clenched around a loose rope, and the other clutching at his hat. _Of course, because we wouldn’t want to lose that, would we?_ Thorin’s panicked thoughts gibbered. His stomach was churning; threatening to spew forwards the remains of last night’s meal as they dropped hundreds of feet downwards, into the heart of the mountain’s tunnels.

Through a haze of terror, Thorin realized that Ithilrian was the only reason he was still on his feet. She was balancing easily, both arms wrapped tightly around Thorin’s chest, holding him close. He felt her body swaying in time with the lurching movements of the falling platform, and she moved her weight with his, keeping him secure, preventing the juddering drop from flinging him off. _I’m probably the safest dwarf here,_ he thought, just before their descent came to a sudden and abrupt halt. 

They’d fallen so far down that the cavern had narrowed, to the point where the remains of the wooden construct had become wedged. With a bone-shattering jolt, it stopped, lurched, and then crumpled. Luckily they were only a couple of short feet above solid ground. The dwarves and Gandalf were all dropped unceremoniously into a crumbling heap of wooden slats, loose rope, and splinters, all yelling and wailing in shock. Ithilrian and Thorin had been luckier. Maintaining her balance, the elf had felt the juddering platform lurching to a halt. Even in the darkness, her keen eyes told her that the ground was not far off; so at the first jolt she had pushed off from the rotting wood, taking Thorin with her. They had landed with a _thud,_ and rolled clear of the debris.

‘Well, that could have been worse!’ Thorin heard Bofur call. He was gasping, winded, grateful for the feel of cold stone against his skin. He realized only belatedly that they had rolled over and over in such a way that found him lying squarely on top of Ithilrian, his chest pressed against hers. Her hands were still tightly clenched around him, and his face was mere inches from her. His limbs trembled, and his heart lurched within him. _Through the blood and the sweat and the terror, we have come to this,_ he thought wildly. Their noses brushed, and for a moment he looked down into blazing silver eyes, pulled towards soft pink lips that seemed to part willingly for him, as he leaned forwards. _Ithilrian…_

_Thunk._

‘You’ve _got_ to be joking!’ 

Thorin lurched backwards, away from her, away from the kiss, adrenaline pounding through his system as, with a terrific thud, the bloated corpse of the Goblin King fell on top of the grumbling company, mere inches away. His heart thudded wildly within his chest, and terror of a different kind gripped his limbs. 

‘Come on,’ he cried hoarsely. ‘Come on!’ He didn’t know if it was the glimpse he caught of the thousands of chittering goblins that were even now swarming down the cavern walls towards them; or the fact that he had been so close to making a terrible, stupid, thoughtless mistake; but panic was flooding his system, muddling his thoughts, making his hands shake and his knees feel weak. He ran forwards to grasp and Kili and Ori, helping to extract dwarf after dwarf from the splintered mass that had once been the platform. Gandalf had already picked himself up, and was dusting down his robes. 

‘Gandalf!’ Kili cried. ‘Look!’ The youngest prince had also spotted the charging hoard of goblins that were swarming towards the fallen dwarves like ants.

‘There’s too many! We cant fight them!’ snarled Dwalin, glancing desperately left and right. Several passages branched off from where they had landed; but they all went in different directions, and they all looked the same. 

‘Only one thing will save us: daylight!’ cried Gandalf. ‘This way! To the back door!’ He helped tug Bifur and Nori from the remains of the platform, before hurrying into the lead. He led them through tunnels and twisted and turned like the coils of a giant serpent. A faint light glimmered at the end of his staff, illuminating dripping stone walls that seemed to close in on them as they ran. Thorin felt his heart thudding wildly in his chest. He did not dare to even turn his head, to glance at Ithilrian; he simply kept his face forwards and ran, feeling cold sweat on his brow, trusting that the elf was keeping pace with them. 

They ran on, through the dripping tunnels, puffing and gasping. Gradually Thorin noticed the rock turning to gravel and earth beneath his boots, as the path began to slope steadily downwards. 

‘We’re close!’ cried Gandalf. ‘I can see daylight!’ 

‘Good,’ grunted Thorin. The sounds of pursuit were close behind them. The fall down the cavernside had bought them time; but the goblins were fast. He knew it was only a matter of time before they caught them up. 

‘Quickly!’ cried Gandalf. A glimmer of daylight shone up ahead, through a seeming narrow crack in the mountainside. ‘They won’t follow us into the sun! Hurry, all of you, out!’ He brandished his staff urgently, pausing beside a rock where the tunnel widened out, changing from a narrow passage to quite a wide space. Thorin came to a halt beside the wizard, gesturing for the dwarves to run on ahead. 

‘Are you sure of this?’ he gasped, fighting for breath, looking up at Gandalf. 

‘We can only hope,’ replied the wizard grimly. 

‘The sun is already setting,’ Ithilrian snapped. She skidded to a halt beside the dwarf and the wizard, allowing other company members to speed past her. ‘Soon it will be dark, Gandalf. You won’t make it far before they catch you.’ She tugged off her bow, which had remained securely over her shoulder through the entire ordeal. ‘I’ll hold them here, where the tunnel narrows. That should buy you long enough to escape.’ She slipped her quiver from her shoulder, planting it in the sandy earth, so that she could draw and fire even more swiftly. ‘Go. You have as much time as I have arrows.’ 

‘Don’t be a fool,’ snapped Gandalf impatiently. ‘Even you could not hold against so many.’ 

‘Don’t worry about me.’ Ithilrian smiled a wolfish smile. ‘I shall remain here. I still have goblin blood to spill. My revenge is still only partly complete.’ 

‘But we can’t just leave you behind!’ cried Kili, who was the last one out. 

‘It’s all right,’ replied Ithilrian, her expression softening for a moment. ‘I… I will catch you up later. You’ll see.’ 

‘No,’ Thorin snarled. ‘They will overwhelm you by sheer force of numbers. I won’t allow you to die alone down here.’ He planted his feet firmly in the ground, baring Orcrist. ‘If you stay, I shall stay.’ 

Gandalf groaned. ‘Save me from the stubbornness of you two!’ he cried in frustration. ‘Ithilrian, you must sate your lust for vengeance! It is not worth dying for!’ 

‘I know it’s not,’ replied Ithilrian, her voice hard as steel. ‘But there are some things that are.’ She met Thorin’s eyes, and nodded. ‘Go and find your mountain, Thorin Oakenshield. Slay the dragon and reclaim your homeland. Make it count.’ She ran her fingers carefully over the fletchings of her arrows, checking for any flaws that might impede their flight. The sounds of the distant goblin pursuit were growing louder. 

‘You are both complete and utter rock-headed, addle-brained fools!’ bellowed Gandalf. ‘In more ways than one, I might add! Get moving, now! We’re losing the daylight!’ He turned in frustration. ‘Dwalin, Balin! Can you talk some sense into this pair?’ 

Several dwarves came running back down the tunnel. ‘Aye, what’s up now?’ asked Balin breathlessly. He took in the situation at a glance. ‘Oh.’ He looked up at Dwalin. ‘Brother? A little help, if you please.’ 

Dwalin merely grunted, before grabbing Thorin bodily and heaving him over one huge, muscular shoulder, ignoring the dwarf king’s furious bellow. 

‘Good,’ nodded Ithilrian, counting her arrows. ‘I shall remain – argh!’ Her words were cut off as Balin did exactly the same with her, hoisting the slender elf into the air as though she weighed no more than a feather pillow. ‘Balin! Put me down this bloody instant!’ 

Both dwarves ignored their shouts, running with Gandalf back towards the sliver of daylight. It only took a few seconds before they all tumbled out onto the grass, falling into where the rest of the Company was anxiously waiting. As soon as they were out, Gandalf turned. With a loud cry and a gesture, he smote his staff against the rocks above the opening, causing several of them to come crashing down, blocking the entrance. 

‘There,’ he nodded approvingly. ‘That should take them a while to burrow through. Come on! Let’s get a little further off!’ He turned, and began running down the grassy slope. The rest of the company followed him. 

‘Can I put ye down now?’ grunted Dwalin. ‘You’re not going to run off and do anything even more stupid than usual, aye?’ 

Thorin snarled in reply, as he was dropped unceremoniously from the larger dwarf’s shoulder. He rubbed his ribcage ruefully, glancing over to where Balin was gently depositing Ithilrian, apologizing profusely all the while. The elf seemed to be positively bubbling with indignation. But she took one look at the sealed entrance, and nodded. 

‘Very well,’ Thorin heard her snap. ‘I shall come.’ She slung her bow and quiver back over her shoulder, throwing a backwards glance at Thorin before taking to her heels and leaping lightly after the rest of the dwarves. 

‘Come on then,’ grunted Dwalin. Thorin rolled his eyes, but began to run again, keeping pace with his old friend as they hurtled down the gently sloping ground, past sparse bushes and scraggy trees, before skidding to a slow halt some distance off, in a small clearing at the foot of the mountain slope. 

‘Seven, eight, nine…’ Gandalf was counting the dwarves as they arrived. ‘Bifur, and Bofur, that’s ten. Fili and Kili, that makes twelve; and Bombur. That makes thirteen.’ He nodded, before hesitating, and glancing around. ‘Where is Bilbo? Where is our hobbit?’ 

The company started, staring around, as though Bilbo might suddenly pop up from the ground beneath them. Thorin groaned as a cacophony of shouts rose.

‘Curse the Halfling! Now he’s lost!’ 

‘I thought he was with Dori!’

‘Don’t blame me!’

‘Well, where did you last see him?’ 

‘I think I saw him slip away when they first collared us!’ 

‘What happened exactly?’ 

Thorin pinched the bridge of his nose in frustration. All his pent up frustration burst forth as he raised his voice in a snarl that carried across the clearing. ‘I’ll tell you what happened.’ He stalked forwards to confront Gandalf. ‘Master Baggins saw his chance, and he took it! He has thought of nothing but his soft bed and his warm hearth since he stepped out of his door. We will not be seeing our hobbit again. He is long gone.’ The words spewed forwards bitterly, fueled by his anger and exhaustion. His chest was heaving. He ignored the outraged look that Gandalf was directing at him, and the muffled cry of protest from Bofur. 

‘No, he isn’t.’ 

Thorin almost jumped out of his skin at the small voice that sounded behind him. He turned to face Bilbo, who seemed to have appeared out of thin air. The hobbit looked dirty and battered, with mud smeared down one cheek and his waistcoat torn. But he was alive. He heard Bofur sigh with relief. 

‘Bilbo Baggins!’ cried Gandalf. ‘I have never been so glad to see anyone in my life!’ 

Thorin watched the hobbit step forwards, almost shyly, clapping Balin on the shoulder and grinning up at Gandalf. 

‘Bilbo! We’d given you up!’ cried Kili delightedly.

‘How on earth did you get past the goblins?’ asked Fili. 

‘Well, what does it matter?’ said Gandalf, smiling and nodding. ‘He’s back!’ 

Thorin stepped forwards. ‘It matters. I want to know.’ He braced himself, narrowing his eyes, staring at the Halfling critically. ‘Why did you come back?’ 

‘I… I know you doubt me,’ replied Bilbo. ‘I know you always have. And you’re right, I often think of Bag End.’ He shrugged. ‘I miss my books, my armchair, and my garden. You see, that’s where I belong. That’s home. That’s why I came back, because… you don’t have one.’ He swallowed hard, raising his chin defiantly, meeting Thorin’s gaze. ‘A home, that is. It was taken from you. But I will help you take it back if I can.’ 

Thorin was momentarily speechless. A wave of regret rushed over him, for the bitter words he’d spoken in anger a moment ago. He pulled his gaze away from Bilbo’s, glancing down at his boots. He felt ashamed. It would appear he had judged the hobbit too harshly. 

Ithilrian stepped forwards. The fires of her rage seemed to have cooled a little during their run, and her expression was mild once more. ‘It would seem that many of us could take a lesson in courage from you, my friend.’ She smiled warmly, dipping her head respectfully towards Bilbo. ‘Welcome back.’

Bilbo grinned, and opened his mouth to reply; but before he could do so, low howls and guttural shouts rent the still air. As one, the company looked behind them. There, visible as dark brown shapes in the fading light, was the unmistakable shape of a pack of warg-riders: undoubtedly the ones who had pursued them across the plains before. 

Thorin groaned. It seemed this nightmare was never to end. ‘Out of the frying pan…’ 

‘…And into the fire,’ finished Gandalf. ‘Run!’ He turned on his heel. _‘Run!!’_

~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Down down down, to goblin town! ^_^ I must admit, that turned out to be a much more action-packed chapter than I normally like to write, but I hope it's all turned out okay in the end. I'm just not used to writing action scenes! Ahhh! 
> 
> Next stop, Azog! :D


	30. Out of the Frying Pan and Into the Fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Thorin's worst nightmare reappears, and an unlikely ally comes to their rescue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all!   
> First things first, my apologies for taking so long to update this fic. I've been a bit low lately, and my writing time's been eaten up by other things (mainly feeling sorry for myself!), as well as a new fic I've been working on at the same time. So, by way of an apology, I'm uploading the next _two_ chapters, instead of just the one.   
>  I hope you can forgive my brief hiatus, because I have plans for this fic! It definitely won't be left unfinished. So, here's the next part. I hope you enjoy reading.

Dusk darkened quickly into night, as the sun fell and the Company found themselves once again running for their lives. The howling of the wargs rent the night air, sending shudders up Ithilrian’s spine. She kept pace easily with the dwarves, despite her tiredness. 

But no matter how swiftly they ran, the wargs were swifter still. Their lithe, bounding leaps meant that it wasn’t long before they were snapping viciously at the heels of the Company. The whirling blades of Thorin and Balin dispatched several front-runners. Even Bilbo managed to take one out, backing into a tree and sending his slender elvish blade straight into the skull of one of the brutes. Ithilrian dodged sideways, ducking as a leaping warg sailed over her head, not even bothering to break her stride as she thrust with one dagger, slicing cleanly through the beast’s prominent artery. She leapt lightly over the falling body, continuing downhill, only to halt suddenly in dismay.

The dwarves had run right up to the edge of an overhanging precipice. There was no cliff to climb down, no handy rope, and no way to escape; only bare rock and towering pine trees. They were trapped. She glanced around wildly, flexing her limbs, readying her daggers. The orc-pack was nearly upon them. 

‘Up into the trees, all of you!’ called out Gandalf. ‘Come on! Climb!’ 

Ithilrian groaned, but swung herself up into a low branch of the nearest tree, nodding with approval as the rest of the dwarves began to do the same. Despite their bulk, most of the Company managed to leap into the branches with surprising grace. 

‘Bilbo! Climb!’ Gandalf cried out urgently. Ithilrian looked back. The hobbit was still on the ground, seemingly rooted to the spot in terror. 

‘They’re coming!’ bellowed Thorin. 

‘Hold on!’ cried Ithilrian. She leapt into the tree just above Bilbo and locked her legs around the branch, before swinging down and grabbing him around the chest, dragging him into the relative safety of the branches just as a warg made a leap for his throat. Its jaws snapped, missing the hobbit’s bare feet by inches. 

‘Thank you!’ he gasped, as the elf helped boost him higher up the tree. 

‘You can thank me once we get out of this mess,’ muttered Ithilrian as they climbed, keeping one hand firmly clenched around the collar of Bilbo’s jacket. ‘ _If_ we get out of this mess,’ she added grimly. 

The wargs circled below, howling balefully. Green and gold eyes gleamed in the darkness, and pink tongues lolled eagerly from savage jaws. Ithilrian shuddered. Her nostrils were filled with the scent of blood, and her ears were ringing from their wailing snarls. But all of a sudden, the beasts ceased their growling. All eyes were turned towards the lone warg-rider that sauntered slowly into their midst, grinning vindictively as he surveyed the trapped dwarves. 

The pale orc looked like something out of a nightmare. Seated comfortably atop a snowy white warg, he was bare to the waist, taller and broader than the rest of his pack. His milky skin was marred by a tracery of interlocking scars, looping in whorls and spirals around his muscular torso. His icy eyes glittered in the moonlight, and his vicious gash of a mouth was opened in a low snarl of triumph. 

‘Azog?’ 

Thorin’s voice was a disbelieving whisper, hoarse on the night breeze; yet to Ithilrian’s ears it was louder than a scream. She tore her gaze away from the grinning orc to look at him. Thorin’s eyes were wide with horror, and all the colour had drained from his face. There, sitting beneath him, was the monster that had slaughtered his grandfather; seemingly returned from the dead. A viciously pronged spike had been driven through the stump of the orc’s left arm, replacing the limb Thorin had severed so long ago. 

_‘Do you smell it?’_ snarled Azog in the ringing silence. _‘The scent of fear?’_ He took a long, deep sniff of the cool night air. _‘I remember your father reeked of it, Thorin son of Thrain.’_

Ithilrian shuddered. The orc was using black speech; and while most of the dwarves and Bilbo couldn’t understand him, she certainly could. A swift glance told her the Gandalf was listening too. But when she looked at Thorin, her heart gave a tremendous lurch. 

The dwarf king’s face was creased, as one stricken with pain and grief. ‘It cannot be,’ he whispered numbly. His voice was thick with shock. 

The pale orc ignored his words. _‘That one is mine,’_ he intoned, raising his mace high and pointing towards Thorin. _‘Kill the others!’_

In a roaring frenzy, the wargs lurched forwards. They leaped and snapped at the lower branches of the trees, trying to reach the dwarves, who by now had scrambled into the uppermost branches. Their weight caused the slender pines to quiver alarmingly, as the beasts’ collective fury shook the trees right down to their roots. The pines began to topple. 

One after another, the trees fell. The dwarves and Ithilrian, who still had a tight hold of Bilbo, were forced to leap from their respective branches. They grabbed onto any available handhold, to prevent themselves falling into the maelstrom of wargs that howled and slavered beneath them. Eventually, all that remained standing was a single, solitary tree, perched right upon the precipice; and even that was beginning to shake beneath the frantic onslaught. 

‘Mithrandir!’ cried Ithilrian, clinging onto a slender branch with one hand, the other still firmly wrapped around a terrified Bilbo. ‘We must do something!’ 

The wizard shot her a look before grabbing a pinecone. With a few frantically muttered words of power, he set the resin inside the cone ablaze, before hurling it down into the slavering ring of beasts below. The wargs’ triumphant howls turned into yelps of pain and fear, as the fire stuck and burned in their shaggy coats. 

‘Fili!’ cried Gandalf. ‘Catch!’ He hurled another burning cone, before dropping one down to the dwarf prince below him. Fili wasted no time in using it to light others, until all the dwarves were bellowing defiance and hurling flaming cones. Sparks flew in the breeze, and smoke from the fires billowed up into the night.

But the dwarves’ triumph was short-lived. The crackling flames crept closer and closer to the base of their tree, until with a creaking, cracking groan, it began to topple. Ithilrian cried out as her branch snapped, sending her lurching onto another, clinging on grimly until with a shudder, the tree halted its descent, hanging precariously over the precipice, held in place by a few strong, stubborn roots. 

_Sweet Lady Varda help us,_ thought Ithilrian wildly, staring down into the yawning abyss beneath her. The dwarves were all struggling, having been pitched from their perches. Most of them were barely clinging on. She managed to swing herself towards a solid bough, clamping her legs around it and hoisting herself upright, reaching for her bow. But before she could reach it, a terrified scream came from her left.

‘Fili! _No!’_

It was Kili who had shouted, Kili whose eyes were wide with fear; who could only watch as his brother’s grip faltered, and he slipped from the branch he was hanging from. He was falling, Ithilrian realized; and there was nothing to stop him. 

Tightening her legs around the branch, she allowed herself to swing downwards. ‘Fili!’ she cried, reaching out, bracing herself for the impact as the dwarf prince fell past her. Quick as a flash she reached out, locking her arms around his torso, halting his fall. Pain ricocheted through her legs as the sudden shock of his full weight hit her, nearly tearing her from the branch. 

_It would be easier just to let go,_ her inner thought whispered, as the crackling of the fire grew louder and the stricken tree lurched again. _We’re all going to die here anyway. It’d be better than being eaten by wargs._ But the rest of Ithilrian ignored the whispers, and clung on. She kept her arms clasped tightly around the waist of the terrified dwarf, whose frantic hands were scrabbling at her for dear life. 

‘Hold on to me, Fili,’ she whispered, hoping that the dwarf could hear her. ‘Just hold on. It’ll be all right.’ The dwarf prince’s hands found her, gripping her arms so tightly it hurt. She looked down into his terrified face, willing herself to remain calm. _He has his uncle’s eyes,_ she thought wonderingly. _How could I never have noticed that before? Durin blue, like finest sapphires._

‘Ithil,’ gulped Fili. He was staring up at the elf desperately, trying to cling harder. But after a few moments Ithilrian saw his gaze shift, darting to something behind her. His eyes widened in horror.

Thorin was up. He was standing unsteadily, having somehow managed to lever himself to his feet. His eyes were blazing with the fires of vengeance as he stared down at the pale orc, whose oath to destroy Durin’s line had brought him so much misery and death. His jaw was set, and Orcrist gleamed in his hand, unsheathed and thirsting for blood. 

Ithilrian recognized that look. It was one she was sure she’d worn herself, during the fight in the goblin caverns. She knew the lust, the terrible _need_ for revenge, which would drive one forward recklessly, even to death. That was where Thorin was going, as he took pace after pace down the trunk of the fallen tree, picking up speed as he went, hurtling towards the monster who had beheaded his grandfather.

_‘Thorin!’_ she screamed. But he did not heed her cry. Past the blazing branches he strode, through the smoke and the stench, his head held high. Ithilrian could only watch as a ferocious battle cry tore from the dwarf king’s mouth as he hurled himself towards the pale orc; and Azog snarled in triumphant reply.

His white warg leapt forwards. Teeth and claws raked over Thorin’s face as she hurtled over his head, the warg’s sheer bulk wrenching Orcrist from his grasp, and knocking him flat on his back. With a growl of triumph, Azog turned. Thorin had barely managed to regain his feet when the pale orc struck, wielding his mace with devastating force. The blow caught Thorin in the chest; and he crumpled. He could not hear the anguished bellows of his Company, and the shattered scream of despair that tore from Ithilrian’s lips as the warg turned, closing her massive jaws around the broken dwarf, shaking him as though he was a rag doll. 

She could do nothing, Ithilrian realized. Nothing to help the dwarf that she loved. Her arms were full of Fili, who was still clinging to her desperately, his feet kicking wildly at thin air. If she released her hold, the young dwarf would die. She was forced to watch, utterly helpless, as the white warg tossed Thorin aside.

_‘Bring me the dwarf’s head,’_ snarled Azog. An orc lieutenant slipped from his mount, walking slowly to where Thorin lay, drawing a large knife from his belt and holding it in readiness. For the second time in so many hours, Ithilrian watched Thorin as he lay beneath an executioner’s blade. Only his arm was moving, a single hand flailing desperately for Orcrist, searching for the hilt of the sword that had landed some feet away, far out of his reach. _He’s going to die,_ Ithilrian realized. _He’s going to die, and there’s nothing I can do this time._ The orc raised the blade high, hissing in triumph as he prepared to bring it down. 

But once again, the blade did not fall; and Thorin’s potential executioner received the shock of his life as a small, terrified, but wrathful hobbit barreled into his side, knocking the orc flat on his back. The slender elvish sword gleamed in triumph as Bilbo rammed it home, straight through the orc’s chest. The creature gave a guttural cry of pain, writhing beneath the blade, before black blood seeped forwards and his head lolled back. Ithilrian could only stare, astonished, as Bilbo tugged the blade free and staggered to his feet, turning to find himself facing down the entire orc pack. 

Ithilrian groaned, turning her gaze away. She knew what would happen. Brave as he was, the diminutive hobbit stood no chance against Azog. She didn’t want to watch him die. She didn’t want to watch Thorin die. She tried to choke back the tears that were streaming down her face, gazing upwards into the night, through the fires that blazed and flickered, trying to find one last moment of comfort in the sight of the stars. 

But she saw no stars. Instead, giant winged shapes wheeled above her. _Eagles,_ her thoughts cried. _The Great Eagles of Manwe!_ Throwing back her head, she gave a harsh, shrieking cry for help. It spiraled up into the night; and in response, the great shapes above her began to circle down. Ithilrian felt the downdraft from their tremendous wings like a cool wind upon her face, as she began laughing hysterically. 

‘We’re saved, Fili,’ she whispered delightedly, as an answering cry rent the night air. ‘We’re saved!’ 

Stricken cries filled the night as the Great Eagles struck. Talons as long as Ithilrian’s forearm raked through the orc ranks, sweeping up wargs and tossing them into the yawning canyon as though they were nothing more than dead leaves. Others swept around, picking up the struggling dwarves, flying them up to safety. Ithilrian found her heart pounding with relief as a familiar figure swept past. 

‘Gwaihir!’ she cried out. An answering shriek met her words. She glanced down at Fili, who was staring around him in bewildered terror. ‘Hold on,’ she advised him, before releasing the branch. 

Down, down they plummeted; until with a jolt, the pair landed on something blessedly solid, warm, and feathered. One of Gwaihir’s people had caught them as they plummeted into the abyss. Fili cried out in fear, clutching tightly to Ithilrian, as she in turn reached out to grasp the eagle’s back, holding firmly just behind the wing joint. They were climbing, gaining altitude, wheeling upwards in wide, dizzying spirals. From the ledge behind her, she could hear wargs wailing in terror, and the furious bellowing of Azog. Turning her head, she spotted one eagle bearing the limp form of Thorin in its mighty claws. The Defiler had been denied his prize. 

_Let him be alive,_ thought Ithilrian fiercely, as the eagle’s wings swept the air beneath them, and they soared ever upwards. _Please, blessed Lady Varda, Kindler of the Stars, just let him live._

~

The eagle’s flight seemed interminable. Ithilrian could not relax, frantic with worry as she was about Thorin; a predicament which was not helped by the discovery that Fili was afraid of heights. After their initial scrambling tumble onto the eagle’s broad back, the young dwarf had huddled up to Ithilrian, burying his head in her shoulder and clamping both arms around her waist, refusing to remove them. She comforted him as best she could; but her heart was filled with fear. It would have been difficult to tell which of them was more delighted, when the eagles began to circle in ever-decreasing spirals towards a high lonely crag that seemed to rise like the spire of an ancient tower out of the wooded lands below.

The great bird landed gently, but Ithilrian and Fili both fell clumsily from it’s back nonetheless. Ithilrian was in a hurry to get to Thorin; but despite the apparent safety of their landing spot, Fili’s arms appeared to have fused around the elf-maid’s waist. They landed with an undignified _thud_ on the rocky plateau, Ithilrian muttering elvish curses under her breath as she struggled to disentangle herself. 

‘Fili!’ bellowed Kili, sprinting over towards them. ‘You’re alive!’ The younger Durin grabbed his brother in a fierce embrace, burying his head in his shoulder. ‘I saw you fall,’ he whispered. 

‘Ithil grabbed me,’ replied Fili, his voice muffled as he tucked his head into his brother’s hair. ‘If she hadn’t been there…’ The rest of his words faltered, and the brothers shared a relieved embrace. 

‘Miss Ithil…?’ said Kili, turning towards the elf; only to find that she was no longer by their side. She was running towards the end of the crag, to where a great eagle had deposited the limp body of Thorin Oakenshield. 

‘Thorin!’ she cried, her voice as harsh as the eagle’s shrieks in the still dawn air. ‘Is he alive?’ 

Gandalf was kneeling over the prone form of the dwarf lord, his hand on his brow, mumbling words of power beneath his breath. Ithilrian halted, hovering by his shoulder, knowing better than to interrupt. She recognized healing magic when she saw it. Her heart was pounding frantically as she watched for the rise and fall of Thorin’s chest; for any sign that he yet lived. When his blue eyes flickered slowly open, she almost collapsed with relief.

‘Blessed be the Lady Varda,’ she muttered, as Dwalin pushed past her. ‘He’s alive.’ She watched the burly dwarf help Thorin gain his feet. He was bruised, battered, and breathing raggedly; but he stood proudly, albeit with the help of Dwalin, staring wildly around until he found the face he sought.

‘You!’ he snapped, pointing an accusatory finger at Bilbo. Ithilrian watched as the halfling’s eyebrows shot upwards in surprise. ‘What were you thinking?’ the dwarf king continued, his eyes blazing angrily. ‘You could have been killed!’ 

‘I…’ Bilbo stuttered, his words trailing off in the face of Thorin’s rage. Ithilrian watched his face fall, feeling a tug of pity in her heart. She had not forgotten Bilbo’s brave rush during the battle; the way he’d thrown himself at the orc who was trying to murder Thorin, buying them some extra time. The hobbit was clearly not without courage.

‘Did I not say that you were a burden?’ Thorin was snarling. ‘That you could not survive in the wilds? That you had no place amongst us?’ Ithilrian felt a smile threatening to tug at her lips as she watched Thorin’s scowl soften into a relieved and grateful smile. ‘I have never been so wrong,’ he added, pulling the bewildered Bilbo into a fierce embrace. 

‘We’re alive,’ she murmured, looking up at the sky with wonderment. ‘We’re all still alive.’ She turned to the dwarf next to her. It was Bofur. ‘I didn’t believe we’d live to see the dawn,’ she added simply, when he looked up at her questioningly. 

‘Aye, we’re all mightily relieved,’ the dwarf nodded, uncharacteristically unsmiling. ‘That back there was far too close for comfort.’

‘Indeed.’ Ithilrian grimaced. ‘Let’s never do that again.’

‘Is that… what I think it is?’ Bilbo’s voice piped up beside them. They followed his gaze, over the rolling hills that stretched beneath them, beyond the dark smudge of Mirkwood on the horizon, to where a single, snowcapped peak gleamed in solitary splendor among the rising mists. 

‘The Lonely Mountain,’ breathed Thorin, coming to stand beside them. Ithilrian felt her heart quiver and pulse at the longing in his voice. ‘Our home.’

~


	31. A Brief Respite

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Thorin and Ithilrian have a row… which doesn't end the way anybody expects. Also, Thorin has a minor revelation.

It was late. The sun was beginning to sink, and Thorin’s muscles ached at every slip and stumble as the Company trudged through a section of secluded woodland. While he was undoubtedly grateful for the Great Eagles’ timely assistance, he was feeling faintly resentful that the haughty beasts hadn’t deposited them at the borders of Mirkwood. But according to Gandalf, that was out of the question. Men lived too close to the woods, hunters who would try to shoot at the eagles with their bows and arrows if they caught sight of them. 

‘It’s late,’ murmured Fili beside him. ‘Uncle, when should we stop to rest?’

Thorin heaved a sigh. His nephews had been by his side ever since he awoke; and he hadn’t the heart to pry them away. According to Gandalf, he had nearly died. _Again,_ his inner thought added, probing at him mercilessly. _But the last time, Ithilrian saved you. And now…_

He glanced around, catching a glimpse of the pale elf’s tall silhouette. She’d barely spoken two words to him since they’d landed. She was striding at the back of the company, guarding the rear, listening for any sings of approaching pursuit. So far, they’d been lucky. No sight, nor sound, of any warg or orc, was to be found.

‘Here,’ he said wearily, glancing around at the encroaching trees. ‘Here will do. We’ll make camp. What’s left of it, anyway,’ he added grimly. They had nothing: no baggage, no ponies, no food, and no supplies. All had been lost, taken by goblins, likely scattered somewhere deep below the Misty Mountains. Thorin felt his stomach give an almighty rumble. How long was it, he wondered, since they’d eaten? He’d lost track of time entirely in the goblin tunnels. 

With muffled groans, the Company clattered to a halt. Even Gandalf seemed weary, leaning heavily on his staff as he surveyed the surrounding area. ‘I believe we can risk a fire,’ he muttered. ‘There is plenty of dry brush and wood here.’ 

Thorin nodded, exhausted though he was. ‘We’ll get some.’ He motioned to Dwalin, laying a hand on his axe haft. 

‘Not you,’ snapped Gandalf. ‘You are still in danger, Thorin. You took several grievous wounds in the last battle, and my magic cannot do everything. Rest. Allow your body to heal.’

‘Aye,’ nodded Dwalin, plucking the axe from Thorin’s unresisting grasp. ‘You’ll be no good to man nor beast, getting yourself even more injured. Stay put.’

With a groan, Thorin acquiesced, slumping to the ground and leaning back against a tree. He ignored the muttering around him, as the rest of the Company took advantage of the halt to rest their weary feet. Dimly he could distinguish Ithilrian’s low tones as she conferred in muted elvish with Gandalf. He wondered what she was saying.

He must have dozed off, because the next thing he knew there was a crackling fire blazing before him, and the smell of something delicious roasting upon it. 

‘What’s all this?’ he asked gruffly, blinking in the firelight.

‘Miss Ithilrian went hunting,’ supplied Nori. ‘Good game in these woods. Shot half a dozen pheasants, she did.’ He gestured towards the fire, where Bombur was carefully turning an improvised spit. ‘Should be ready in a jiffy. We were going to wake you when they was cooked, honest.’

‘Hmpf.’ Thorin grunted, crossing his legs and sitting up straighter, wincing as his muscles ached in protest. ‘It’s nice to see some things don’t change.’ He leaned forwards, trying to stretch out the ache in his back. ‘But all the same, we should be wary. I do not know these woods. I do not trust them.’ 

‘There have been no sign of orcs,’ interrupted Gandalf. ‘Thorin, I believe we may rest easily for at least one night. Besides, if anything malign approaches, I’m sure Ithilrian will hear it before it can find us.’

Thorin glanced to his left. Ithilrian was seated cross-legged in front of the fire, gazing into the blaze, her deep hood pulled up. He caught a glimpse of grey eyes before she tilted her head, seeming to shy away from his gaze. 

‘Will she?’ snapped Thorin irritably. She was deliberately ignoring him, he thought. It was not to be borne. ‘Is this true?’ he added, glaring at her.

‘It is,’ replied Ithilrian, her voice a low murmur. ‘But I might make a better sentry if I were seated farther away, my lord. Or if you dwarves were capable of making less noise than trolls at a tea-party.’

Thorin snarled angrily. ‘You are being facetious, elf.’ 

‘No, _hîr vuin._ Just honest.’ Her voice lowered into an answering growl. ‘Perhaps I should go take the first watch. Clearly, my presence is not desired here.’

‘Ithilrian!’ snapped Thorin, as the elf drew herself swiftly to her feet. ‘Hold!’ He pulled himself to his feet as well, ignoring the awkward shuffling of the dwarves around him, and the pain that lanced through his chest. ‘What is wrong with you?’ he snapped, exasperated. ‘We barely escaped with our lives back there. Now you will not even look at me, let alone speak to me civilly?’ He snarled his frustration. 

‘Wrong with _me?’_ The elf’s voice lowered, thick with anger. She turned upon Thorin, towering over him, her jaw clenched. ‘You run straight down a burning tree towards your mortal foe, towards a creature of destruction and hate, who has sworn to wipe your line from the face of Middle Earth: and _you_ have the audacity to ask what’s wrong with _me?’_ She stepped closer. Thorin could see her eyes blazing beneath her hood. ‘I nearly had to watch you _die,_ Thorin. It is not a process I plan to repeat. So yes, I shall take the watch tonight. I will do what I must to keep this Company from harm; whether you think it necessary or no.’

Thorin gaped at her, open-mouthed. So _that_ was why she’d been avoiding him? Anger welled up inside his chest, coiling tightly around his lungs. His breath came in short, choked gasps. ‘How dare you!’ he growled. ‘After your… _performance_ in the goblin tunnels? I thought you dead when the Goblin King struck you down, until Balin told me otherwise. You fought carelessly, like a creature possessed, Ithilrian. Your lust for vengeance almost got you killed!’ 

‘As did yours!’ she hissed venomously, turning her face aside. The deep hood hid her features from Thorin’s eyes. ‘I cannot watch that again, Thorin. I will not.’ She halted, her voice breaking on the final word. Thorin’s heart gave an anguished twist at the sound. 

‘You wont have to,’ he snapped. ‘The next time, I shall kill him.’ 

‘Really?’ Ithilrian turned her stricken face towards him, tugging back her hood. He was shocked to see the tears that streaked her pale cheeks, glimmering in the firelight like drops of fresh-cut diamond. ‘Do not make promises you cannot keep, Thorin. Else I shall return to the Misty Mountains, and exact the second half of my vengeance against the goblin filth.’ 

‘You cannot do that,’ Thorin replied, closing the distance between them, ignoring the horrified mutters from the rest of the dwarves. ‘They will kill you, Ithilrian.’ 

She shook her head. ‘They may. They may not. What does it matter?’ 

‘It matters.’ Thorin stared up at her, allowing his eyes to focus on nothing but her: on the strange pale gaze that had held him so enraptured, for so long. ‘It matters,’ he repeated softly. ‘I’ll not let you die in your quest for vengeance.’ 

She shook her head. ‘And neither shall I let you.’ She sighed. Thorin watched, as the rage seemed to drain out of her. Her shoulders slumped, and her silver head drooped, as she raised a slender hand to wipe the tears from her cheeks. ‘It is a strange thing,’ she added softly, raising her head to look at him. ‘I find that in this, we are far too much alike, Thorin Oakenshield.’ 

‘I know.’ Thorin bowed his head. He winced at the thoughts that crowded at him, the memory of their flight through the reeking goblin tunnels, the instruments of torture he had seen, the blood that had stained Ithilrian’s daggers. ‘Do not go back,’ he murmured. ‘Please, Ithilrian. Promise me you will not return to that awful place.’ 

Ithilrian hesitated. ‘Thorin…’ her voice was hoarse, thick with pain. ‘I already swore an oath, Thorin. That I would be avenged upon my sister; that I would slay the creatures that tormented her.’ 

‘And so you have,’ replied Thorin. ‘You do not need to seek your own death in order to fulfill your oath.’ 

‘I… had always intended to,’ she replied softly. She blinked slowly in the firelight, as though realizing something for the very first time. ‘Never have I said that aloud before,’ she murmured. ‘But… yes. I always expected… hoped, even… to die in that battle. I thought it would be preferable to enduring all the ages of this world alone. Yet…’ her voice faltered, and she looked at him helplessly, as though seeking the right words. 

‘Yet now you do not want to?’ Thorin almost felt like laughing at the absurdity of it all, had her expression not been so hurt. ‘Ithilrian, there’s nothing wrong with _not_ wanting to die!’ He felt something welling up in his chest, a feeling surging within him that he’d come to recognize all too well. _Tell her you love her,_ his thoughts whispered. _Just tell her now!_ The memory of their landing in the goblin cavern rose up before his eyes: the way her eyes had blazed and her lips had moved, seeming almost to invite him to take, to taste…

He shook his head, dashing the thoughts from his mind. The entire Company was watching them, he reminded himself. This was neither the time, nor the place, for such lurid confessions. He watched as her eyes began to soften, loosing their determined, icy edge. He sighed in relief. 

‘Come on,’ he said softly, lowering his voice. He raised one hand tentatively, placing it on her arm. ‘Let’s eat, and rest. We’ll think all the better for full bellies and a good night’s sleep.’ 

Ithilrian nodded. ‘You are correct.’ She glanced him over, her eyes narrowing. ‘If only I hadn’t lost my pack,’ she muttered resentfully under her breath. ‘There were medicines in there that could have helped you heal.’ 

Thorin grunted, reclaiming his seat, tugging the slender elf down beside him. ‘If they were anything like that confounded pain draft you used to give me, then good riddance to them,’ he replied. ‘The taste of that concoction was worse than the stench in the goblin tunnels.’ 

‘What…?’ Ithilrian snapped, before her gaze softened and she realized he was jesting. ‘Oh, I see. Very funny, _hîr vuin.’_

‘If… if you’ve both quite finished?’ a small voice interrupted. They turned, to see the entire Company watching them, with various expressions of amusement on their faces. Bofur was chuckling, hat clamped over his mouth to try and muffle the sound. Dori, Nori, and Ori were all wearing identical expressions of baffled amusement; while Fili and Kili’s twin grins were in danger of splitting their faces in two. Gandalf was simply puffing on his pipe and smiling knowingly. But it was Bilbo who had spoken, who had planted his hands firmly on his hips, and was endeavoring not to laugh as he confronted the elf maid and the dwarf lord. 

‘If you two can lay off for just as long as it takes to get the food served…?’ Bilbo shot a glare at Ithilrian, as she opened her mouth to protest. ‘I’ll be having a word with you later, Miss Ithilrian,’ he added, shaking a finger in mock-severity. ‘But right now…’ he broke off, as his stomach gave an unholy gurgle. ‘Right now, I think everyone here would like some supper. If you wouldn’t mind?’ 

‘Right.’ Ithilrian nodded, smiling softly as she tugged out her knives once more. ‘You’re absolutely right. Forgive me, Master Baggins. It’s been a long day, after all. Let’s get these pheasants carved.’ 

~

 _Confound it all,_ thought Thorin morosely, as he struggled to find a comfortable spot on the bare earth. His slumber had been patchy throughout the entire night. As dawn’s first light crept over the top of the trees, he gave up. He heaved himself wearily to his feet, fumbling in his pocket for his pipe, wandering over to where a hunched figure was keeping watch. 

‘Balin,’ he muttered, settling down beside his old friend. ‘How goes it?’ 

‘Well enough,’ replied the white-bearded dwarf. ‘No sound of our enemies yet. With a bit of luck, we’ll reach Mirkwood before they pick up our trail.’

‘Luck.’ Thorin snorted. ‘I doubt luck has been with us so far, Balin.’ 

The older dwarf chuckled. ‘We’ll see, laddie. Stranger things have happened, after all.’ He paused, looking sideways at Thorin. ‘Stranger things indeed,’ he repeated softly. ‘Thorin, when are you going to tell her?’ 

‘What?’ Thorin snapped. He stared askance at his oldest friend, wondering if his words meant what he thought they did. Icy shards of fear churned in his gut. ‘Tell… who?’ he asked carefully, fighting to keep the tremor from his voice.

‘Come along, Thorin,’ sighed Balin. ‘Don’t take me for a fool. I know you’re in love with our she-elf. It’s plain as the nose on your face.’ He chuckled. ‘Plain enough to me, at least. And a couple of the others.’ He nodded companionably, a gentle smile creasing his weather-beaten features. ‘It’s all right. No-one thinks the worse of you for it. As a matter of fact, some of have been getting a bit impatient.’ 

‘Impatient?’ Thorin repeated hoarsely. He felt as though a lead weight had just been dropped into his stomach. _How did they find out?_ He thought frantically. _How do they know?_ He narrowed his eyes, scanning his old friend’s face carefully. ‘Balin, how long have you known?’ he asked finally. 

‘Long enough,’ nodded the old dwarf sagely. ‘Thorin, for ten years I watched you working yourself to a shadow in Ered Luin. I noticed how you never said her name, never spoke of her once, despite all that happened. And now? I see you smiling again. I see the way you look at her, when you think nobody is watching. Like she is the most precious thing in all creation.’ He smiled fondly. ‘It didn’t take a genius to work it out. If it did, my dear brother wouldn’t have guessed as well.’ 

Thorin groaned, burying his head in his hands. ‘Was I truly that obvious?’ 

‘I’m afraid so.’ Balin shook his head in wry amusement. 

‘So what happens now?’ asked Thorin. He felt a hot blush flooding his cheeks, mortification at his secret thought having been so easily uncovered; yet somewhere in the depths of his twisted tangle of emotions, relief was flashing a fin. This was no longer a burden he had to bear alone.

‘What happens…? Laddie, don’t be so dense!’ replied Balin, raising his eyebrows in surprise. ‘I assume you’ll want to court the lass, yes?’ He huffed into his beard. ‘You’d be mad not to, after all this time.’ 

‘Balin…’ Thorin shook his head. ‘It’s not so simple. And…’ he swallowed hard, fighting the misery that rose up in his throat at the words he was forcing himself to say. ‘Balin, why would she want me? She’s an _elf._ Immortal, powerful, beautiful… And who am I? A poor wandering dwarf, with no home to speak of; bearing nothing but the scars of ancient battles and a grudge against a dragon.’ His voice shook, as did his hands as he reached into his pocket and pulled out his pipe. ‘The goblin king, curse his name, was right. Without my mountain… without our _kingdom_ … I’m nobody.’ 

‘You cannot surely believe that?’ replied Balin incredulously. ‘You are our King, Thorin. I know it: and so does she.’ 

‘Then you think…’ Thorin hesitated, weighing his words with care. ‘You think there is a chance…?’ 

‘I do.’ Balin nodded, smiling broadly. ‘I think there is a good one. After all, why else is she on this quest? Not for the promise of gold, I’m certain. Not to reclaim a homeland – after all, she’s already got one. Not to slay a dragon… because really, Thorin, who would actively go looking for one of those monsters?’ He chuckled and shook his head. ‘She’s here for _you,_ Thorin. I believe that she has feelings for you. Why else do you think she was so furious with you earlier? She was terrified that you would die.’

‘I…’ Thorin shook his head. ‘I do not know what to think,’ he finally admitted, his voice hoarse with effort. ‘Balin, all these years, I never dared to hope…’ 

‘I know.’ Balin reached over, patting his oldest friend companionably on the shoulder. ‘I know it well, lad.’ He passed Thorin his tobacco pouch, smiling as he watch Thorin fill his pipe with trembling fingers. ‘So the questions remains,’ he added softly. ‘What are you going to do about it?’ 

Thorin hesitated. His fingers worked on automatic, filling the pipe, tamping it down, before reaching towards the fire for an ember to light it with. His hands shook as he took several deep drafts, allowing the smoke to soothe his fractured nerves. 

‘I have never courted somebody properly before,’ he began slowly. ‘I… would not know where to begin. But I believe… that I would like to try.’ He allowed his thoughts to rise up before him, the memory of Ithilrian’s gentle smile, her laughter, her quiet words. He thought of how she’d spoken to him during the bitter watches of the night, her voice soft in his ears, telling him of her childhood, and the pain of her sister’s passing. The trust she had shown him was… extraordinary, now that he came to think of it. Why had he never noticed it before? Had he simply taken it for granted? 

‘I will do it,’ he said suddenly, surprising himself with the confession. ‘I’ll… find a way, somehow.’ He gave a short, cynical laugh. ‘I doubt one of Durin’s sons has ever tried to court an elf before,’ he added, with a self-deprecating chuckle. He shook his head ruefully. ‘Durin’s beard,’ he added softly. ‘What am I getting into?’ 

Balin chuckled. ‘As far as I can tell, you’re finally seeing sense,’ he muttered. ‘And it’s about time too. There’s coin on the line, you know. Nori’s been taking bets for weeks.’

‘You’re joking.’ Thorin arched a disbelieving eyebrow. ‘You’re _not_ joking,’ he added wonderingly, as Balin’s grin only widened. ‘Balin, how did I miss this? How did I not know?’ A thought struck him. ‘Does _she_ know?’ he added hastily, his stomach churning with alarm.

Balin shook his head. ‘The lads only talk about it in Khuzdul. Ithilrian’s none the wiser. But I wish you luck, laddie.’ His face softened, suddenly serious. ‘I mean it. You’ve had a hard life. We all have. So if there’s even a chance for you to find some happiness… reach out and grasp it with both hands, aye?’ He patted his friend’s arm. ‘There’s been far too much misery and death in our lives, Thorin. Try to add a bit of laughter to it while you can, eh?’ 

‘I will.’ Thorin surprised himself, feeling a bewildered grin stretching itself over his features. ‘Thank you, Balin, for your help.’ 

‘No bother,’ nodded the dwarf happily. ‘Now go and get a couple of hours more sleep. We’ll have a swift march ahead of us, if we’re to maintain our head-start over the orc-pack.’

Thorin shook his head. ‘You think I could sleep, Balin? After this?’ He clapped his old friend roughly on the shoulder. ‘I’ll get the fire going properly. The others will wake soon.’ 

He stalked off, treading quietly around the sleeping forms of the dozen other dwarves, picking up a couple of spare logs to add to the embers of last night’s campfire. As he did so, he found his eye wandering, drawn unerringly to the grey cloak-wrapped bundle that was all he could see of the sleeping elf. His heart stirred excitedly in his chest. He had made his decision: and he was going to abide by it. Nothing would swerve him from this path: not elves, orcs, goblins or wargs. He felt an incredible lightness inside his chest. If there was even a chance that she might feel something for him; that she might look upon his courting with favour; then it was enough. Enough to make his heart sing. Enough to make him feel ten years younger. Enough to make him laugh, long and low, as the pale dawn light flooded into their makeshift camp, tingeing everything with a glimmering golden luster.

‘Remember today,’ he murmured to himself, over the crackling pops of the campfire embers. ‘Remember this feeling, for the dark days that are yet to come.’

~


	32. Memories by Moonlight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the Company take refuge in Beorn's hall; and Thorin cannot sleep.

The following day was spent travelling through the lowlands. The Company’s spirits weren’t high, despite the progress they were making. Every now and then they’d be forced to scale the low hills that peppered the undulating grasslands; and every time they did, even Bilbo could catch a glimpse of Mirkwood on the horizon, a dark and foreboding smudge upon the landscape. 

Their lack of any food, bedding, and other supplies was also weighing heavily on the minds of the dwarves, especially Thorin. While Ithilrian’s hunting skills meant that food was not the most immediate problem, he was loth to enter Mirkwood so vastly undersupplied. However, that was not the only cause for concern.

Occasionally, when the wind was blowing from the west, it carried the sound of faint but bone-chilling howls. The orc-pack was still on their trail. This was why, despite their lack of both food and sleep, Thorin hurried the Company along as fast as they could manage. It was pointless thinking that Azog and his pack would lose their trail: the wargs could track them by scent alone. All Thorin could hope for was that they’d be able to enter Mirkwood far ahead of the orcs, in order to outwit the pack among the twisting forest paths. 

This hope grew slimmer and slimmer throughout the day. Nobody dared to mention it; but as the howls became louder, and the pursuit drew nearer, Thorin’s nerves were beginning to fray. So when a huge, unearthly roar sounded somewhere in the copse behind them, he didn’t hesitate. 

‘Run!’ he bellowed. ‘Quickly!’ 

Galvanized by fear, the whole Company went from a startled halt to a dead sprint. Unburdened by any packs or baggage, they hurtled through the sparsely wooded area. Thorin was running beside Gandalf, his heart in his mouth. They were running: but where to? Where could they go? 

‘There is a place nearby,’ Gandalf huffed, throwing a glance over his shoulder. ‘A place we could take shelter, and possibly resupply.’ 

‘What?’ Thorin snapped. The howls were growing louder. ‘Why have you not spoken of this before?’ 

‘Because the owner is not over-fond of dwarves,’ replied the wizard irately. ‘I was not certain that imposing upon his was the wisest course. However, given the circumstances…’ he broke off as another loud, baying roar came from somewhere to their rear. 

‘Lead the way,’ muttered Thorin. Gandalf nodded, turning slightly, and leading the company at a tangent through the woods. Dusk was falling, and the Company ran through the fading light, gasping with collective relief as a large wooden building slowly became visible beyond the treeline. 

‘This way! Come on!’ cried Gandalf. Weary as they were, they picked up the pace. But they had barely cleared the woodlands before a fresh danger appeared. With a roar that seemed to shake the very ground they stood upon, a monstrously-sized bear crashed through the foliage behind them, padding towards the Company with jaws agape. 

_As if we didn’t already have enough to worry about,_ Thorin thought desperately, as he redoubled his speed. His legs ached and his lungs were burning, as they hurtled towards the building that offered sanctuary. It was lucky the distance was so short; for even as Company piled through the heavy wooden doors, the beast was upon them, snapping and snarling. Thorin threw his weight back against the doors, joined by Dwalin and Bifur, only just managing to slam them shut on the bear’s slavering maw. 

‘What in Durin’s name was that?’ gasped Kili. 

‘That is our host,’ replied Gandalf solemnly. ‘His name is Beorn. He is a skin-changer. By day, he is a man; by night, he is a great black bear. The bear is dangerous, but the man can be reasoned with.’

‘You’ve got to be joking,’ growled Dwalin.

‘Not in the least,’ replied Gandalf sternly. ‘As you will see tomorrow morning. But for tonight, we may rest. We are safe for now within these walls. No orc or warg will come near this place; it is too well-protected. But do not set foot outside this hall before the sun rises!’ 

‘Aye, I think I’d guessed that part,’ muttered Bofur, tugging off his hat and fanning himself with it. ‘All this running’s not good for my health, you know.’ 

~

It was dark inside the hall. The sun had long since set, and the dwarves had not dared to start a fire; so, under the watchful eye of Gandalf, the Company settled themselves down to sleep. After the day’s long march and forced run across difficult terrain, everybody was exhausted. Bofur and Bilbo had managed to commandeer one corner of the room for themselves, much to Thorin’s wry amusement. The rest of the dwarves had simply dropped to the floor and slept where they had fallen. Even Gandalf appeared to be asleep, wrapped in his cloak at the far end of the hall. But tired as he was, Thorin was not sleeping. 

He raised himself up on one elbow, looking towards the darkness beside the great firepit, where he knew Ithilrian lay, curled like a cat between Kili and Dori. He wondered if she was sleeping too; or whether, as so often happened, she had remained awake, lost in her own thoughts. He was of half a mind to go and find out, when a small movement confirmed his suspicions. The elf had shifted, turning over to lie on her back. He heard a soft groan in the silence, and knew she was awake. 

It was more than he could resist. Slowly he eased himself upright, grateful that he’d thought to remove his heavy boots. Moving as soundlessly as he could in thick, padded socks, he slipped past the prone figures of his slumbering company.

‘Ithilrian?’ he whispered. ‘Are you awake?’ 

‘Yes.’ The elf stirred. He saw her push herself upright, a dim figure in the wavering moonlight. ‘Thorin?’ 

‘It’s me,’ he confirmed, stepping over a snoring Gloin and halting beside her. His heart was hammering. ‘I know it’s late, but I cannot sleep; and I would speak with you, if I may.’

‘Of course.’ She rose to her feet, glancing around. ‘Come.’ She beckoned to him, and he followed as she moved silently across the hall, climbing swiftly up a short ladder that led to Beorn’s hayloft. He clambered up after her, trying to keep his movements as quiet as possible. 

‘I thought we might speak more freely up here,’ Ithilrian said softly, turning to glance at him, a questioning expression on her face. ‘There is less chance of disturbing our sleeping companions. They need their rest.’ 

‘As do we,’ muttered Thorin, but without conviction. He settled himself on the smooth wooden floor, his back against one of the hay bales, smiling slightly as Ithilrian mimicked his movement, sinking down opposite him. The loft had one small window that was open to the outside air, and the light of a silver moon was streaming through, bathing the small room with a soft, pale radiance. 

‘What ails you, son of Durin?’ Ithilrian asked quietly. She had cast off her cloak, and appeared to be dressed only in trousers and a thin grey tunic. Her glimmering silver braids shone whitely in the moonlight.

‘I wanted to speak with you alone,’ Thorin replied. ‘I… want to apologize.’ 

‘For what?’ she asked, tilting her head to one side questioningly. 

‘For my harsh words at camp the night before,’ he replied softly. ‘I spoke angrily, and without thought. I ask for your forgiveness.’ He felt his heart pulse in his chest as the elf smiled softly, offering him that same small twist of her lips that he had fallen in love with so many years ago. 

‘There is nothing to forgive, _mellon nîn,’_ she replied quietly. ‘For on my part, I must offer you the same apology; for when I should have spoken with kindness, rejoicing in our escape, I did not. Fear twisted my words, and made them bitter. I regret them.’

Thorin allowed himself a low chuckle. ‘Then you were right when you said we are too much alike.’

‘Perhaps.’ The moonlight slanted over her features, rendering her pale skin almost milky white in the darkness. ‘It is too easy to be consumed by fear,’ she added. ‘Fear for the lives which we hold most dear. We should be glad for what we have, instead of mourning what we have lost. Or… almost lost.’

Thorin shook his head slowly. ‘You speak with more wisdom than I,’ he muttered. ‘For there you touch on something else that I want to say.’ He drew in a deep, steadying breath, resting his hands upon his knees, gripping them tightly to stop them from trembling. There was so much he wanted to say: but now she was here, and he had the chance, he felt his heart quail within him. _What if it all goes wrong,_ his inner thought whispered treacherously. _What if I ruin everything: her trust, and our friendship, through telling her?_

He hesitated, his mind racing. ‘I have spoken long with Fili,’ he said eventually. _One thing at a time,_ he decided. ‘He told me how you saved his life. That while I was consumed by rage and trying to play the hero, he lost his grip on the branches. Had you not caught him, he would have fallen into the abyss. And I…’ he faltered, trying to hold himself together. ‘I did not even notice. I was so wrapped up in my desire for vengeance, I could not even see that the life of my nephew was hanging by the slenderest of threads.’

Ithilrian laughed softly. ‘I am not that slender, _hîr vuin.’_

‘You know what I mean,’ Thorin grunted. ‘The thought that I might have lost him… that he would have died, and I would not have even noticed…’ he broke off, choking on the words, the guilt pulling him down like a millstone around his throat. 

‘Thorin,’ said Ithilrian softly. ‘Do not punish yourself for that. It all happened so swiftly, and truth be told we were all in peril. There came a point where I did not believe that any of us would survive.’ 

‘I know.’ Thorin tried to steady his breathing, placing one hand on his chest to try and soothe the frantic hammering of his heart. ‘Yet the thought that I nearly lost him terrifies me.’ His voice was hoarse with the effort of speaking; but he knew that he must tell her, force her to understand. ‘I have no children to call my own, Ithilrian. No sons or daughters to care for. Yet in truth I see Fili and Kili as such, despite the fact that they’re my sister’s sons, not mine. I raised them from babes to the warriors they are now.’ He exhaled a long, shivering sigh. ‘If anything were to happen to them…’

‘I know,’ said Ithilrian quietly. Her face was turned to him, and her grey eyes were looking deeply into his, filled with understanding. ‘I know, Thorin.’ She seemed to hesitate, looking at him carefully, gathering her words before she spoke. ‘I also have no children,’ she continued slowly. ‘The Valar have not seen fit to bless me in that way. Yet I have two nephews, and a niece, that I care for as though they were my own. And Fili and Kili…’ she halted, shaking her head slowly, a sad smile creasing her delicate features. ‘They remind me so much of my sister’s sons,’ she added softly. ‘So much so, that I’ve come to think of them in the same way. It would break my heart to lose either of them.’ She laughed quietly. ‘You know, they are more similar to my nephews than I would have at first believed.’ 

Thorin released a long, slow sigh, smiling as a surge of unexpected warmth rose within him. She cared for his nephews: that he already knew. But the fact that she thought of them almost as her own…? It gave him hope. 

‘Tell me about them,’ he said softly. 

‘My nephews?’ she glanced at him, seeming surprised, but gratified when he nodded his encouragement.

‘If it is not impertinent to ask,’ he replied. ‘You so rarely speak of your family. But… I want to know you, Ithilrian. I would have you tell me more.’ 

She laughed softly. ‘A bold request,’ she murmured. ‘But I will answer it as best I can.’ She paused for a moment, staring into the middle distance, smiling faintly. ‘It has been too long since last I saw them,’ she said. ‘Elladan and Elrohir ride with the Dúnedain, the Rangers of the North. They… were a part of the search party that rescued Celebrían,’ she added. ‘What they saw in those tunnels…’ her voice faltered, and for a moment her expression hardened into bitterness. ‘The loss of their mother changed them much. They are twins, you see. Where one leads, the other follows. They used to be such sweet boys; and they still are, in many ways. But whenever there is fighting to be done, and orc filth to be slain, then they become a pair of steely-eyed terrors.’

‘Twins?’ said Thorin wonderingly. ‘Truly your sister was blessed. Such births are few and far between among my people.’ 

Ithilrian smiled wryly. ‘They are hardly common among my folk either. They take after their father in appearance, dark-haired and dark-eyed. But Lord Elrond often insists that it’s in looks alone that they resemble him. They both have a wildness to them, which he always used to blame on me.’ 

‘On you?’ Thorin chuckled. ‘You’re their aunt, not their mother. It sounds unlikely to me.’ 

Ithilrian grinned. ‘Be that as it may, there’s no denying they are reckless young scamps. But I couldn’t be more proud of them.’

Thorin nodded. ‘What of the other?’ he asked encouragingly. ‘You said you had a niece as well?’ 

‘I do,’ she replied. He smiled, watching her pale eyes light up with the fondness of recollection. ‘Her name is Arwen. The elves of Imladris also call her Undómiel, that is the Evenstar: for it is said that she holds the darkness of the night sky in the shadows of her hair, and her beauty shines like the brightest of stars.’ Ithilrian’s fingers travelled towards her throat, as though seeking something that was no longer there. ‘She bears a jewel, such as I once did,’ the elf added softly. ‘Perhaps one day, she will find someone worthy of it.’ 

‘You mean this jewel?’ asked Thorin, reaching inside his tunic. He drew out the Twilight Stone, still held safely upon its silver chain. The moonlight seemed only to enhance the pale fires that glowed within the stone’s milky depths. 

‘You keep it still?’ said Ithilrian, smiling at the sight. 

‘I do.’ He nodded. ‘I used it to call to you before.’ He hesitated, unsure of what to say next. ‘You recall our meeting in the village of Bree?’ he added.

She nodded. ‘Yes.’ 

‘Before you appeared, I showed the stone to Gandalf,’ Thorin admitted. ‘He demanded to know I came to possess such a thing.’ He held it high, allowing the pendant to dangle, twisting gently to and fro on its delicate silver chain. ‘When I told him you gave it to me, he was shocked. Almost angry.’ 

Ithilrian smiled faintly, turning her gaze away from Thorin’s face and towards the gleaming jewel between his fingers. ‘I am hardly surprised,’ she replied. ‘The jewel is an old one – almost as old as I am. It also has great value among my people.’ She smiled, but to Thorin’s eyes her smile was tinged with sadness. ‘It is hardly the kind of thing one would give away lightly,’ she added softly. 

‘It is valuable?’ he shot her a questioning glance. ‘I have seen such stones as these before, in my grandfather’s treasury. Moonstones, we call them. I… have seen finer jewels,’ he added, a hint of doubt creeping into his voice. Moonstones were a fairly common gem, after all. 

‘I am sure you have,’ she replied quietly. ‘And finer craftsmanship, no doubt. Let us say that it’s value is more of a sentimental nature. It is old, as I said. It was crafted in the days when such things were not so commonly found.’ She seemed to hesitate, her gaze flickering between Thorin and the stone. He leaned forwards, willing her to hold his gaze. There was something flickering in the depths of her eyes, not unlike the pale radiance of the stone between his fingers. _Grey as frozen river ice beneath the light of a silver moon,_ he thought as she met his gaze. The breath caught in his throat and his heart redoubled its pace. 

‘There is more to it than that,’ she said quietly. Her voice was very low, and she spoke slowly, as though she were picking her words with great care. ‘That necklace is a… symbol, if you like. It was crafted especially for me, to display my status as a daughter of the Lord and Lady of Lothlórien.’ She smiled softly. ‘Moonstones, did you say you call these gems? That is highly appropriate, is it not? The first part of my name, _Ithil,_ means _moon_ in Sindarin. That jewel is bound to me; and I to it. It’s as much a part of me as any thing could be.’ 

Thorin shook his head, bewildered. ‘Then why did you give it to me?’ he asked. He pulled the chain from around his neck and looped it over his hand, proffering the jewel. ‘You should take it back,’ he murmured. ‘If it truly is of such great importance. It hardly seems fitting that I should bear it.’ 

Ithilrian smiled; but her eyes were downcast, and it was a small, painful smile that seemed to tug reluctantly at her lips. _Why is she so sad?_ His inner thought wondered. _Always, there is something deep within her… some lingering sorrow, which I cannot touch._

‘It was a gift,’ she replied, her voice barely above a whisper, soft as the night breezes. ‘Keep it.’ 

‘I cannot,’ he replied. ‘Besides, it has served its purpose. You told me to use it to call for you; and I have done so.’ 

Ithilrian nodded. ‘Yet many leagues still lie between us and Erebor,’ she said quietly. ‘Our journey thus far has been filled with perils. Who is to say that the worst is now behind us? If by chance we should become separated…’ her voice trailed off, and Thorin caught his breath as a flicker of fear showed faintly in her eyes. ‘Besides,’ she added, ‘the jewel is yours now. You can place it back in my hands, if that is what you truly wish; but know that it still belongs to you.’ 

Thorin hesitated. There was something she was trying to tell him, he realized. Something that he could not understand. He felt himself being drawn into the depths of her strange pale gaze, towards grey eyes that glimmered in the moonlight, muddling his thoughts, making the blood run hotly in his veins. _By Mahal, she is beautiful,_ he thought. _As beautiful as the dawn._

‘Very well,’ he replied, more gruffly than he’d intended. ‘I shall keep it, for now.’ 

‘Good,’ she replied. ‘My heart will rest a little easier if you do.’ 

Thorin smiled, replacing the chain around his throat. The Twilight Stone felt smooth and cool against his skin, as he slipped it back beneath his tunic, allowing it to claim its customary place over his heart.

‘Do you remember when you gave it to me?’ he asked softly. ‘At our parting in Ered Luin?’ He hesitated as Ithilrian winced, a shadow of pain seeming to pass across her face. 

‘I remember it well,’ the elf murmured. 

‘At the time, I had nothing to give you,’ he continued, feeling his heart beginning to pulse rapidly at the thought of what he was about to do. ‘A promise was a poor return, in light of such a gift. But now…’ he paused. His fingers were shaking as he reached up to unlatch a bead from one of his customary braids. ‘I would give you this gift, Ithilrian Tinnulenath, Silver Lady of Lórien,’ he intoned solemnly. ‘Will you not take it?’ He held out the bead, hoping she would not notice how his hand shook slightly, thinking how small and paltry it appeared. 

‘You would offer me this?’ asked Ithilrian softly. Her face creased in curiosity as she reached out slowly, plucking the bead from his palm and holding it up to the light. ‘It is beautiful, _mellon nîn._ But from your expression, I fear I do not yet comprehend its significance.’ 

‘I…’ Thorin hesitated. His nerves were jangling, and his pulse was racing. ‘It is a symbol of my house,’ he began slowly. ‘I received a pair of them the day I came of age.’ He raised his hand to show Ithilrian the other bead, still safely clasped at the end of his braid. ‘They are made from purest _mithril,’_ he added. ‘Studded with diamonds, and chips of fine-cut sapphire.’ 

‘Silver and blue,’ nodded Ithilrian. ‘Durin blue. The colours of your line.’

‘Yes.’ Thorin raised an eyebrow. ‘How did you know?’ 

The elf laughed softly. ‘I didn’t. It was a guess, _hîr vuin.’_

‘I see.’ Thorin chuckled, despite his nerves. ‘Dwarves receive beads such as these at significant points in their lives,’ he continued slowly. ‘Different families share certain colours, designs, gemstones…’ he hesitated, smiling ruefully. ‘I will not bore you with the lore, for it is long, dull, and complicated. However, in short, these are Durin beads. And this…’ he gestured towards the glimmering bead between Ithilrian’s fingers. ‘I would have you wear it,’ he added, with great difficulty. ‘As a sign of our… friendship.’ He swallowed hard. ‘And as a symbol of family,’ he added. 

‘Family?’ The elf raised one slender eyebrow. 

‘Yes.’ Thorin cleared his throat nervously, his fingers clenching and unclenching. He could feel the sweat beading on his palms. ‘Ithilrian, I do not wish to count the times you’ve saved my life, or the life of my heirs. I know only that your loyalty is beyond question; and your friendship is beyond any doubt.’ His fingers shook as he tried to untangle the words that lingered on the tip of his tongue, both eager and reluctant to be said. 

_Just tell her!_ his inner thought raged. _Just tell her it’s a courting gift: tell her the significance!_ But he couldn’t. For ten long years he had suffered alone, holding onto his desperate silence; and that habit could not be so easily broken. His tongue clove to the roof of his mouth, and his breath began to come in shallow, painful gasps. He just couldn’t say the words. 

‘I just… want you to know that you’re one of us,’ he muttered instead. ‘That we consider you a part of our family, such as it is. I know my sister’s sons adore you. And when you told me how much you care for them in turn…’ he spread his hands in a helpless gesture. ‘Please wear it,’ he finished limply. 

He shook his head. _Coward,_ his inner thought snarled. 

‘I shall.’ Ithilrian turned towards him, a gentle smile creeping over her face. To Thorin, it was as beautiful a sight as the rising of the sun. ‘I shall wear it with pride, Thorin Oakenshield.’ She reached back, tugging at her hair, looping her hand around the full length of it and pulling it over her shoulder. She wore it, as was her custom, with half of the length plaited back into a selection of slender braids, the other half hanging loose down her back. Her fingers sorted through the braids, seeking one to fasten the bead onto. 

‘They are all too narrow,’ she muttered beneath her breath. ‘I shall have to put in a new braid for this.’ 

He nodded, watching enraptured as her deft fingers pulled apart and unlaced three separate braids. Her hair was so bright, he thought; glimmering like fine-spun strands of _mithril_ , soft as silk, and bright as starlight. His fingers twitched. How he longed to reach out, to smooth his fingers through her tresses, to weave his own courting braids into that exquisite fall of glimmering silver. 

‘There,’ she said softly. ‘It is done.’ She had combined the hair from the three separate braids into one long, thicker weave. To this, she added Thorin’s bead, slipping it on carefully, smiling as it clicked smoothly into place. She released it, turning her head slightly, testing the weight. The new braid hung down the center of her back, thicker and stronger than the others. Thorin’s heart beat painfully in his chest at the sight of it.

‘It suits you,’ he managed to say. 

‘Thank you,’ she replied, smiling shyly. ‘You are far too kind. This is a kingly gift, Thorin. One that I shall treasure.’ 

He nodded. ‘It was my pleasure, _ghivashel,’_ he replied softly. ‘I only wish there was something more I could give you.’ _Like my heart,_ he added silently. _I’d offer it to you willingly; but it has long been in your keeping._

He sighed, suddenly feeling drained. His nerves had been wound up to fever-pitch; and now that it was done, and the gift had been given, he felt exhausted. The strength was draining out of him. It did not go unnoticed. 

‘Thorin, you look exhausted,’ murmured Ithilrian, glancing out of the window. ‘The hour grows late. Or perhaps I should say, it grows early. Dawn is but a few hours away, and I believe it would be best if you were rested before meeting our… host.’ 

‘Host indeed,’ muttered Thorin, running a hand through his hair distractedly. ‘I can only hope Gandalf knows what he is doing.’ 

Ithilrian shrugged, smiling faintly. ‘We have trusted him this far, and he has not led us astray. Let us have a little faith.’ She stood up, arcing her back, stretching her long slender limbs. ‘Come,’ she added softly. ‘We should return, and take what sleep we may.’ 

‘Aye,’ he replied, the word reluctant in his throat. He did not want to go back to his spot on the cold floor, without her presence beside him. He missed the campfires they’d shared, the times he’d fallen asleep with a smile on his face and her quiet singing in his ears. That had been enough, for a time. But now…?

He wanted more. He wanted to take her in his arms, to feel the warm weight of her against his chest once more. He wanted to taste her breath upon his lips. 

‘Thorin?’ she said, looking back at him concernedly. ‘Are you well?’ 

‘Yes,’ he muttered, averting his gaze, biting down hard on the thoughts that rose unbidden. ‘I will follow you.’ 

_Soon,_ he promised himself, as he slipped carefully down the ladder after her, and back into the main hall. _Soon I will tell her, I swear it. I will show her the truth of what lies within my heart, even if it kills me._

~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wheeee! We're getting closer now folks! Poor old Thorin, he can't _quite_ bring himself to say the words… yet! 
> 
>  
> 
> Translation notes: 
> 
> Mellon nîn = my friend (sindarin)  
> Hîr vuin = my lord (sindarin)  
> Ghivashel = treasure of treasures (khuzdul)


	33. Beorn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the Company finally meet their host.

The following day, dawn arrived accompanied by patches of low-hanging cloud and a shower of light rain, which drenched the surrounding lands with a constant, low-level drizzle. It made Ithilrian smile as she crept past the slumbering dwarves. She did not mind the rain. Which was why, as soon as the sky began to lighten, she pulled on her cloak and unlatched a window. She leaned out and breathed deeply, enjoying a breath of cool air upon her skin, allowing the rain to fall on her upturned face before quickly and quietly climbing out of the window, up the side of the house, and onto the roof. She sat back against the chimneystack, drawing up her hood, and gazing out over the mist-filled lands. Cool and calm the morning air might be; but Ithilrian’s heart was racing, and even as she sat in the rain, she could feel the heat flushing into her cheeks at the memory of last night’s conversation. 

She tilted her head to one side, absent-mindedly reaching into her hair, smiling when her questing fingers closed around Thorin’s bead. It felt smooth against her skin, save for where the dainty pieces of cut diamond and sapphire had been cunningly embedded into the metal. She pulled her braid forward, inspecting it critically. Even in the low dawn light, the _mithril_ bead seemed to gleam with its own pale radiance. 

_Why this gift?_ She wondered. She tested the feel of it in her palm. It was not heavy: at least, not physically so. But to Ithilrian, the bead had a weight that had nothing to do with how light it was. It seemed imbued with meaning somehow: a meaning that she was missing entirely, she thought irritably. There was more to this than Thorin had told her. Of that she was certain. 

She sighed. In truth, the entire conversation that she and Thorin had shared the previous night had left her with a strange impression. He’d seemed so shy, yet eager somehow. _‘I want to know you, Ithilrian,’_ he’d said, after he asked her about her kin. The memory of his deep, rumbling voice sent a hot flush into her cheeks. _A voice like a river of molten gold,_ her inner thoughts whispered. _As soft as velvet, but strong as thunder._ She groaned. 

‘It’s a good thing I’ve learned to control myself,’ she muttered bitterly. ‘He has no idea what he’s doing to me.’ She clenched her fists, willing herself to remain calm, to slow the frantic pounding of her heart as, behind her closed eyes, the image of Thorin’s shy smile and quiet laughter tugged hard at the deep, wrenching pain that still lurked inside her chest, making her gasp and wince. 

She shook her head irritably, pressing one hand over her heart, trying to quell the insistent pulsing ache. _He’s probably just concerned about the next leg of our journey,_ she thought. _After all, I can already see Mirkwood on the horizon. Thorin’s probably worried about Thranduil and the wood elves. Perhaps that’s why he’s given me the Durin bead. To mark me as one of his, rather than one of theirs._ She tilted her head back and forth, narrowing her eyes and peering at the dark blot on the landscape that marked the borders of the ancient forest. There was no denying that it looked a dismal place. 

Her sharp ears caught the sound of rustling foliage. Turning to glance behind her, Ithilrian froze. Emerging from the nearby copse was a great bear of monstrous size. She could see the glisten of rainwater on its thick black coat, and the pointed whiteness of its teeth. But even as she watched, the creature seemed to pause in its stride, shuddering and growling. Before her very eyes it appeared to _change._ Fur became smooth skin, paws became feet and hands; until before her stood not a bear, but an enormous man, with a long mane of dark hair and powerful, muscular limbs. 

_Ah,_ she thought, as realization finally kicked in. _This must be the man Gandalf spoke of last night. The skin-changer: our host._

As if in response to her thoughts, the man looked up. He showed absolutely no surprise at seeing an elf sitting on his roof. Instead, he strode closer, before halting and leaning unconcernedly on a fencepost. 

‘Who are you?’ he said. His voice was low and soft, like a rumbling growl in the back of his throat. ‘I scented you yesterday, when I chased your pack over my threshold. You are no dwarf-kin.’ 

‘I am not,’ affirmed Ithilrian. She scooted closer to the edge of the roof, until she was sitting on the brink with her long legs dangling. ‘My name is Ithilrian, daughter of Galadriel and Celeborn, of Lothlórien. You must be Master Beorn.’ 

‘I am,’ he replied. ‘How do you know my name?’ 

‘We arrived with a wizard,’ replied Ithilrian. ‘Gandalf the Grey told us of you. It was upon his word that we ran for your lands, seeking shelter from the orc-pack that hunts us.’ 

The huge man’s nose wrinkled in disgust at the mention of orcs. ‘Filthy, savage beasts,’ he muttered. ‘Cursed be the filth that come down from the mountains.’ 

Ithilrian found herself nodding in agreement. ‘We were pursued by many, mounted upon great wargs. On behalf of our Company, I offer our sincere thanks for allowing us the safety of your halls for the night.’ 

Beorn tilted his head to one side, but narrowed his eyes. ‘Your thanks I will take,’ he said softly. ‘I’ve no quarrel with elves. But dwarves, I do not like.’ He tilted his head slightly and sniffed, looking at her with great curiosity. ‘You are not from Mirkwood,’ he added. ‘You do not belong here, pale elf. What business have you in these parts?’ 

Ithilrian opened her mouth to answer, pausing at the sound of the great door swinging open. ‘She travels with us,’ said Gandalf, stepping out and smiling up at Beorn. He seemed not to even notice the elf sitting on the roof above his head. ‘Among other things, she is our Company’s healer.’ The wizard removed his hat, dipping his head respectfully. ‘Master Beorn, I have heard tell of you, although we have never met. I am…’ 

‘I know who you are,’ interrupted Beorn. ‘What business do wizards and dwarves have in my lands?’ he added, scowling as Thorin stepped into view beside Gandalf. ‘Which of you leads this so-called Company?’

‘I do,’ replied Thorin gruffly. ‘My name is Thorin, son of Thrain, son of Thror. We journey to Erebor, to reclaim our homeland.’ 

‘Indeed.’ Beorn paused, bending down to take a better look at the dwarf before him. ‘So you are the one they call Oakenshield.’ 

‘I am.’ Thorin nodded. 

‘Then come. Let us go inside, and you can tell me what brings you onto my lands.’ Beorn looked back up towards Ithilrian. ‘There is food,’ he added. ‘Fresh milk and honeycakes. I know elves have a sweet tooth.’ 

Ithilrian grinned widely, suppressing a giggle as Thorin glanced around bemusedly, before finally following Beorn’s gaze and looking up. She saw his eyes widen in surprise. 

‘My thanks, Master Beorn,’ she said, before pushing off the roof and landing lightly on her feet next to Thorin. She dipped her upper body in an elegant half-bow, ignoring the dwarf’s shocked splutter beside her, smiling as the enormous man’s face split into a grin. 

‘I like you, she-elf, he growled. ‘Perhaps your dwarves will not be so bad, if you can stand their company.’ Without waiting for a reply, he turned on his heel and stalked into the hall. Ithilrian bit her lip, trying not to smile at the expression on Thorin’s face.

‘What were you doing on the roof?’ he muttered, as they turned to follow the Beorn. 

‘Thinking, _hîr vuin,’_ she replied serenely, composing her features into a tranquil mask. ‘I was in need of some fresh air. Besides, I wanted to watch the dawn break.’ 

‘But it was raining.’ Thorin scowled. ‘You should not sit out in the rain, Ithilrian. You might catch cold, and take ill.’ 

Ithilrian laughed softly. ‘That is why I am wearing a cloak, my lord Thorin. But… I appreciate your concern.’ 

‘Hmpf.’ Thorin shook his head irritably, as they re-entered the warm darkness of the great hall. ‘You’re no good to anybody if you get sick, Ithilrian. We… I… will worry.’ 

Ithilrian hesitated. There it was again: that same something behind Thorin’s words that she’d heard the previous night, soft as the shadow of a half-formed thought, hovering in the air between them. _What is going on?_ She wondered, eyeing Thorin curiously as they settled at Beorn’s enormous table. _What has changed?_

‘So,’ said Beorn, interrupting her thoughts once all the dwarves were seated. ‘Tell me. Why is Azog the Defiler hunting you?’ 

‘You know of Azog?’ asked Thorin grimly. ‘How?’

‘My people were the first to live in the mountains,’ replied the skin-changer. ‘Before the orcs came down from the north. The Defiler killed most of my family. But some he enslaved.’ He raised his arm to pour milk from a large ewer. Ithilrian noticed Bilbo’s eyes widening at the sight of the broken manacle still clasped around Beorn’s wrist. ‘Not for work, you understand,’ he added quietly. ‘But for sport. Caging skin-changers and torturing them seemed to amuse him.’ 

‘There are others like you?’ asked Bilbo timidly. 

‘Once there were many,’ replied Beorn, turning away. Ithilrian caught a glimpse of sadness in the giant man’s eyes. 

‘And now?’ said Bilbo. 

‘Now there is only one,’ replied Beorn. He seemed almost to shake himself before changing the subject. ‘You need to reach the mountain before the last days of autumn?’ he added. 

‘Before Durin’s Day falls, yes,’ nodded Gandalf from around the stem of his pipe. 

‘You are running out of time,’ said the skin-changer bluntly. 

‘Yes. Which is why we must go through Mirkwood,’ replied Gandalf, nodding brusquely. 

‘A darkness lies upon that forest,’ replied Beorn. ‘Fell things creep beneath those trees.’ 

‘What things?’ asked Ithilrian, leaning forward eagerly. ‘I have seen the dark trees on the horizon, and heard that all is not well with the Greenwood. What is wrong with the forest?’ 

The skin-changer shrugged. ‘I cannot say. Foul magics are at work there. Not all is as it seems. There is an alliance between the orcs of Moria and the Necromancer in Dol Guldur. I would not venture there, except in great need.’ 

‘We will take the elven road,’ replied Gandalf, ignoring a scowl from Thorin. ‘That path is still safe.’ 

‘Safe?’ Beorn shook his head. ‘The wood elves of Mirkwood are not like their high kin,’ he said slowly, shooting a calculating glace at Ithilrian. ‘They are less wise, and more dangerous. But it matters not.’

‘What do you mean?’ snapped Thorin. 

‘These lands are crawling with orcs,’ replied Beorn softly. ‘Their numbers are growing, and you are on foot. You will never reach the forest alive.’ The skin-changer stood up and stretched; ignoring the horrified looks that passed among the Company. ‘Not without my help.’ 

‘And… will you offer it?’ asked Gandalf carefully. 

‘I shall.’ Beorn glanced between the wizard and Ithilrian. ‘But if you are in haste, it is best you leave soon. I shall see that you have packs and provisions, as well as mounts to take you to the forest borders. But only to the borders,’ he added, in a low snarl. ‘Do not take my beasts into that accursed wood.’ 

‘We shall not,’ replied Ithilrian softly. ‘Do not fear for their safety, _mellon nîn._ We will take care of them, and send them back in good time.’ 

The ghost of a smile flickered deep within the man’s dark eyes. ‘At least the elves of old still have some respect for living things. Unlike dwarves.’ He turned an unfriendly gaze back upon the rest of the Company. ‘Stay here,’ he added. ‘I shall see to arrangements. But do not venture far from these halls, if you value your lives.’ 

~

The rain continued throughout the morning. Ithilrian smiled, listening with half an ear to the grumbling of the dwarves, who were not looking forward to riding through the persistent drizzle across the orc-infested lowlands. But it appeared that they had little choice. The weather seemed to have set in for the day, if the tumbling grey clouds that gathered in the east were any indication. 

‘Ithilrian? Miss Ithil, are you up there?’

Ithilrian smiled to herself. She’d been wondering how long it would take one of the Company to come looking for her. She’d slipped quietly back up into Beorn’s hayloft, drawn perhaps by the memory of Thorin’s words and gentle smile. She had commandeered a hay bale to sit upon, and had been lost in thought, gazing at the rain, when a pair of familiar voices interrupted. 

‘I am here,’ she replied, as familiar heavy boots sounded on the ladder, and a bearded face appeared over the rungs. 

‘We brought you some more honeycakes!’ said Kili, heaving himself into the loft, a plate balanced easily in one hand. 

‘They’re the last ones,’ added Filli, pulling himself swiftly up behind his brother. ‘We saw how quickly you devoured them at breakfast. I didn’t know elves could eat that fast.’ 

‘Hmpf.’ Ithilrian smiled, shifting slightly as the two boys sat themselves down in front of her, still grinning. ‘I didn’t realize you two had become so observant,’ she replied drily, helping herself to a honeycake from the proffered plate. ‘What?’ she added, looking from one to the other carefully, as the two boys exchanged mischievous looks. 

‘It’s just that… well, you mentioned _observation…’_ began Fili. ‘And we couldn’t help but notice…’ 

‘You’ve got one of Uncle Thorin’s beads in your hair!’ blurted Kili. His eyes were sparkling, and he was grinning delightedly. 

‘I do,’ replied Ithilrian slowly, raising a quizzical eyebrow. ‘He gave it to me last night. He told me it was a gesture of friendship.’ She hesitated, glancing from one dwarf to the other. ‘And family,’ she added quietly. ‘He said… he wanted me to feel like one of you.’ 

‘And…?’ said Fili, nodding encouragement. 

‘And what?’ Ithilrian shook her head bemusedly. ‘That was all he said!’ She leaned forwards, lowering her voice. ‘To be perfectly honest, he seemed very bashful about the whole thing. Not that I don’t appreciate it, of course,’ she added, taking the braid between her fingers and holding it up so that the bead caught the light. ‘It’s a beautiful bead, and a truly wonderful, thoughtful gift. But I cannot help but think there is more to it than he said.’ She paused, watching the expressions on Fili and Kili’s face. ‘Especially considering your reactions,’ she continued slowly. ‘Boys, you look like you’re going to burst. Is there anything you want to tell me?’ 

‘You mean…?’ Kili’s face seemed to fall, and an anxious flicker showed briefly in the depths of his eyes. ‘He didn’t say? He didn’t tell you?’ 

‘Tell me what?’ replied Ithilrian. Triumph flared within her momentarily. _I knew there was more to this than he was saying,_ she thought. 

‘It’s a… _mmmpf!’_ Kili was cut off as Fili’s hand clamped tightly over his brother’s mouth, stifling any further words. 

‘Sorry!’ Fili said loudly, ignoring his flailing sibling. ‘Ignore Kili, he just gets… over-excited, as you well know. Sorry to bother you, Miss Ithil! Enjoy the honeycakes!’ He backed towards the ladder, dragging Kili with him. ‘We just need to go and… talk to Uncle. Won’t be a moment!’ he added cheerfully, all but falling down the ladder in his haste to get Kili away. 

Ithilrian groaned, shaking her head in bewilderment. _What in Manwe’s name is going on?_ She thought irritably. _Those dwarves are up to something._ She leaned her head back, listening intently. Fili and Kili were shouting something; but unfortunately, it was all in Khuzdul, and she could not make out a single word. More voices joined in, until it became an unintelligible babble; which was only silenced by a bellow that she knew had come from Thorin. He growled something in the silence that followed, low and soft and full of menace. Ithilrian listened, trying to discern something, anything; and her heart twisted painfully in her chest, when she heard him say her name. 

_It’s me he’s talking about,_ she realized. _That’s what they were shouting about before. Maybe it’s not appropriate, for a non-dwarf to wear a Durin bead? Perhaps they think I’m not good enough; that as an elf, I’ll never truly be accepted as one of them?_ A flicker of pain flared momentarily within her chest, hot and bright and sharp as the tip of a dagger. _It doesn’t matter,_ she thought bitterly. _Stupid, brainless, foolish elf, to fall so in love with a dwarf and his people. What does it matter, whether they accept me or not? It will all end the same way eventually. Die, they will all die and turn to dust; and I will remain, in darkness and in pain, until my spirit can suffer no more, and returns in grief to the Halls of Mandos. Why am I still here? Why do I linger, when there is no hope?_ She groaned, running her hands through her hair, feeling the familiar soul-pain welling up within her, its presence almost comforting, like an old friend. 

‘I have been so foolish,’ she whispered softly to herself. ‘So very, very foolish.’ She took the bead between her fingers, rolling it contemplatively. Perhaps she should just go, she thought: just run away, leave the Company, flee into the South; back to the safety of Lothlórien, where she knew they would not follow. 

‘Miss Ithilrian?’ Thorin’s voice was coming from beneath the hayloft, sounding low and guarded. She did not reply. 

‘Ithilrian?’ he said again, more softly. She heard the clunk of his boot upon the first ladder rung. 

_Go away,_ she thought desperately. _Please, just leave me be. I’ve not had a moment’s peace since you came into my life, Thorin. For ten years, I have been bound to you; and you never even knew. How much longer, O King Under the Mountain? How many more years of pain lie before me?_ She held her breath; but he did not ascend any further up the ladder.

‘We are ready to depart,’ he called up gruffly. ‘The ponies are being saddled as we speak. Join us when you are ready.’ 

She heard the thud of his boots retreating across the hall, and the murmurs of the rest of the Company as they turned to follow. She waited, trying to calm the pace of her frantic breaths, allowing the threatening sting of tears to pass before she buried her head in her hands and breathed, slowly and deeply, trying to calm her fragmented thoughts. 

_Stop this,_ she told herself sternly. _This is pathetic._

‘Umm… Miss Ithilrian?’ a small, shy voice broke in upon her thoughts. ‘Are you all right?’ She heard the patter of bare feet, and then Bilbo was at her side, tugging gently at her arm, one hand patting her back awkwardly. ‘There there,’ he said quietly. ‘It’s all right, you know. It’s going to be all right.’ 

She choked out a breath of laughter. ‘Easy for you to say, my friend.’ 

She heard Bilbo chuckle. ‘You know, soon you’re going to look back on this and laugh. I promise you.’ 

‘Will I?’ she raised her head, looking down into the concerned hobbit’s face and smiling sadly. ‘You have such wonderful optimism, Bilbo. It brings a small light into the darkness.’ 

‘I… well, I suppose I just always try to look on the bright side of things,’ muttered Bilbo, wrinkling his nose and grinning shyly. ‘If I didn’t, I wouldn’t be here.’

‘You’re right.’ Ithilrian drew in a deep, slow breath. ‘My thanks, Bilbo,’ she added, reaching out and wrapping an arm around the startled hobbit, pulling him into an unexpected embrace. ‘And, my apologies. Elves as old as I tend to slip far too easily into grief and weariness; and it takes a considerable conscious effort to cast the feelings aside. You never fail to help; and for that, I am most grateful.’ 

‘Oh, well,’ stammered Bilbo. He shrugged awkwardly, rising to his feet, offering Ithilrian his hand. ‘I don’t like to see people miserable, you know. Besides…’ he glanced around, lowering his voice. ‘I remember what we… talked about. You know, in Rivendell. That… thing, that I’m not allowed to tell anyone, you know?’ 

‘I do,’ sighed Ithilrian, taking his hand and pulling herself upright with a groan. ‘So help me, I do.’ 

‘Well…’ Bilbo hesitated, seeming to cast around for the right words. ‘Don’t give up hope, hmm? Things may seem… difficult, right now. But it will work out all right in the end. You’ll see.’ He nodded at her encouragingly. 

Ithilrian smiled, feeling something warm and soft bloom within her chest. ‘You are a kind and brave soul, Master Baggins,’ she said softly. ‘I can think of no better companion for this quest. Truly, Mithrandir was wise when he chose you as the fifteenth member of our Company.’ She stretched, shaking her head, shifting to ease the tension from her muscles. ‘Let us rejoin the dwarves,’ she added, with a sigh of resignation. ‘I dare say Thorin is eager to be off. If we ride swiftly, we should reach the forest before sundown.’ 

‘Okay.’ Bilbo hummed beside her as they slid down the ladder, wandering back through the now-deserted hall, towards the sound of bustling dwarves and whinnying ponies. ‘I’d have assumed you’d be looking forward to crossing Mirkwood,’ he added. ‘There are elves in there, after all. Besides, you like forests, don’t you?’ 

‘I do,’ smiled Ithilrian. ‘Generally speaking, at least. However, I believe you will understand my trepidation once you have seen what remains of the Greenwood for yourself. Then, perhaps, you will not be quite so eager to enter.’ 

~


	34. Passage Through Mirkwood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the Company enters the forest of Mirkwood, with some unexpected results.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick note: I originally had intended to push this chapter out over the weekend, but it ended up needing so much more work than I intended. I must have cut at least four thousand words overall, and rewritten the whole thing more times than I care to count. I hope I got it right in the end. 
> 
> Oh, and be warned: there's a fair bit more elvish in this than usual. Because Mirkwood, yes? Translation notes will be at the end, as usual.

It was a long, hard ride to the western borders of the forest. The ponies that Beorn had lent the dwarves were all fine, sturdy little beasts; and the white horses that Gandalf and Ithilrian rode were tall and magnificent. But despite that, it still took them many hours to reach the fringes of the wood. Whether by luck, or whether the thin drizzling rain and low cloud shielded them from unfriendly eyes, they saw neither hide nor hair of Azog’s warg-pack as they rode.

‘Remove your baggage from the ponies!’ cried Gandalf, as the dwarves halted at the forest border. ‘We must send them back without delay.’ 

Grumbling, the dwarves complied. The atmosphere was subdued as they unbuckled their new packs from Beorn’s mounts, shouldering them and glancing around warily. The trees seemed to loom over the entire company, twisted and menacing in the dim grey light. 

Thorin scowled as he heaved his own pack onto his shoulder. To his eyes, the forest looked just as dark and foreboding as Beorn had described it; and the constant rain was doing nothing to raise his spirits. 

‘This is the elven gate,’ he heard Gandalf call. ‘Here lies our path through Mirkwood.’ The wizard had dismounted his horse to take several steps into the forest gloom, tapping the trees with his staff and muttering to himself. 

‘No sign of the orcs,’ growled Dwalin, glancing around and nodding approvingly. ‘We’ve got luck on our side for once.’

‘Let’s hope it lasts,’ replied Thorin grimly, watching with narrowed eyes as his company prepared themselves. ‘I do not like this, Dwalin,’ he muttered. ‘I feel as though we’re being watched.’ He noticed Bilbo take several hesitant steps into the wood, following Gandalf’s path.

‘This forest feels… sick,’ the hobbit said, glancing around uncomfortably. ‘As if a disease lies upon it.’ He glanced beseechingly up at Gandalf. ‘Is there no way around?’ 

‘Not unless we go three hundred miles north,’ replied the wizard testily. ‘Or twice that distance south.’ The wizard appeared preoccupied, inspecting some of the trees closely, looking around him with an air of deep distrust. 

‘Now do you see, Bilbo?’ said Ithilrian, stepping hesitantly beneath the forest canopy. ‘Your words are correct. This forest is ill. Very ill.’ She placed one hand flat against a tree trunk, resting her palm against the rough bark. ‘It is full of memory. The trees are whispering,’ she muttered softly. ‘But their hearts have been… corrupted. Something foul and evil is at work here.’ Thorin watched as she pulled back her hand swiftly, hissing softly as though she’d been stung, before striding swiftly towards Gandalf. _‘Man cerig, Mithrandir?’_ he heard her say softly. _‘Uuma ma' ten' rashwe. Ta tuluva a' lle.’_

‘What are you saying?’ asked Thorin roughly, stalking towards them. 

‘I do not search for trouble, Lady Ithilrian,’ replied Gandalf, ignoring Thorin. ‘But it appears I have found it nonetheless.’ The wizard scowled, staring closely at the crumbling remains of an elven statue beside the path. With one swift, sudden movement, he reached out and tore away a swathe of climbing brambles, revealing the bare stone underneath. 

‘What is that?’ asked Thorin. A crude drawing of a red eye had been daubed roughly on the statue’s torso. He did not recognize the symbol; but he quickly realized that Gandalf and Ithilrian did. The wizard’s expression grew grave, and the elf blanched in horror. 

‘Mithrandir,’ Ithilrian breathed, staring at the sign. ‘Is that…?’ 

‘Yes.’ The wizard shook his head slowly. ‘If it were alone, it might mean little. But together with…’

‘With what?’ asked the elf. ‘Mithrandir, what aren’t you telling me?’ 

‘The blade that Radagast bore.’ Gandalf hummed and shook his head. ‘And don’t tell me you weren’t eavesdropping when we met him before Rivendell. I know what elves are like. Did you recognize it at all?’ 

‘I…’ Ithilrian appeared to hesitate. ‘No. I did not. But then, I didn’t exactly get a close look at it.’ Thorin noticed that she didn’t even bother to deny listening in on their conversation. ‘But I thought I felt something strange when it was uncovered,’ the elf-maid added thoughtfully. ‘A feeling, cold and sharp, like an echo of old pain.’ 

Gandalf nodded solemnly. ‘It came from Angmar. I must go to the High Fells, Ithilrian. It is the only way I can be certain. And we _must_ know.’

‘So be it,’ murmured Ithilrian, turning away. Thorin felt something clench in the pit of his stomach as she met his gaze. Gone was any trace of laughter or gentleness in Ithilrian’s grey eyes. The elf’s face was set and grim. 

‘What is happening?’ snapped Thorin impatiently. ‘Gandalf?’

‘I’m sorry, Thorin,’ replied the wizard, striding back to the forest’s edge. ‘It appears I must leave you to your quest, for now. More pressing matters demand my attention.’ 

‘What?’ Thorin snarled. ‘What pressing matters?’

‘The fate of Middle Earth itself,’ Gandalf muttered. ‘Not my horse!’ he added, calling out to Nori, who was about to set the last of Beorn’s mounts loose. ‘I need it!’ 

‘Gandalf? You’re not leaving us?’ said Bilbo incredulously. The halfling’s face creased with worry. 

‘I am sorry, Bilbo,’ replied the wizard. ‘I would not do this unless I had to.’ He swung himself back upon the horse, adjusting his hat carefully. Thorin swallowed hard, biting back his anger. The wizard looked worried. More than that: he looked afraid. _Well, that bodes well for us,_ he thought angrily. _Whatever frightens the wizard would be worth avoiding, if possible._

‘I’ll be waiting for you at the Overlook,’ added Gandalf, glancing over the Company, and glaring hard at Thorin. ‘Don’t worry, I wont abandon you entirely. Keep that map and key safe! And – this is very important – do not enter that mountain without me.’

Thorin nodded, glaring, not trusting himself to speak. _This was your idea in the first place,_ he wanted to snarl. _You give me the map, and the key, persuade me to embark upon this quest; and then leave us halfway through?_

‘Good hunting, Mithrandir.’ Ithilrian’s voice sounded soft, but her expression was anything but. ‘I pray that you do not find what you seek. _Na lû e-govaned vîn.’_

Gandalf nodded, wheeling his horse around. ‘Remember, Ithilrian, this is not the Greenwood of old. The very air in the forest is heavy with illusion. It will seek to enter your minds and lead you astray.’ 

‘Lead us astray?’ echoed Bilbo. ‘What does that mean?’ 

‘You must stay on the path. Do not leave it! If you do, you’ll never find it again.’ He tugged on the horse’s reigns, wheeling away from the Company. ‘Remember, no matter what happens, stay on the path!’ he called, his voice becoming fainter as the swift hooves of the wizard’s mount bore him steadily away.

‘Come on,’ muttered Thorin, hefting his pack over his shoulder once more. ‘We must reach the mountain soon. Durin’s Day isn’t far off, and we’ve only one chance to find the hidden door. The sooner we’re through this forest, the better.’ 

‘I quite agree,’ said Ithilrian, keeping pace beside him as together they strode once more beneath the forest canopy. ‘For as long as we are here, we will be in danger. Remember that: and let us hope that our presence may go unnoticed.’ 

Thorin glanced at her as they trudged down the path. Rarely did she walk at the front of the column with him, preferring instead to act as a rearguard at the back of the line. But now, she stalked forwards with a predatory step, prowling like a cat through the low-hanging branches, her eyes constantly flitting from shadow to shadow. 

‘What is wrong?’ he muttered under his breath. ‘Ithilrian, you’re putting me on edge. Tell me, what was it that frightened the wizard?’ 

Ithilrian glanced down at him, her expression serious. ‘The shadow of a threat from a bygone age,’ she replied simply. ‘The memory of an old enemy: one whose return would shake the whole of Arda.’ She shivered. ‘I beg you, Thorin; do not ask me to speak more of this. When we are through the forest, and resting safely on the other side, then I will tell you more than you may wish to know. But now…?’ She broke off, staring about her warily once more. ‘I like it not,’ she muttered. ‘I feel as though fell eyes were already upon us, Thorin. We must move quickly, but carefully. Look!’ 

Thorin followed her pointing finger, glancing from left to right. He had been veering right, following the darkening treeline. But Ithilrian was pointing to the left; and as he watched, she kicked aside some of the dead leaves that littered the ground, revealing the path that he was, in fact, no longer on. Thorin felt cold dread shiver down his spine as he realized that already, he had almost led them astray. 

‘A good thing you were here,’ he muttered, changing direction. ‘Please remain beside me, Ithilrian. I shall have need of your keen eyes.’ 

‘I will,’ replied the elf grimly. ‘But do not rely on me entirely, _hîr vuin._ Keep your wits about you. This forest is old, and has many tricks. The moment we do not believe we are in danger, is the moment we are most likely to fall prey to one of its traps.’ 

~

It was a difficult road to travel. It wasn’t long before Thorin grew to utterly loathe the sight, smell, and even the thought of trees. The path was narrow and winding, often forcing them to march in single file. Even the very air seemed heavy and dense. He had to resist the urge to try and push through it, as though it were a heavy mountain fog. He had to fight the continual urge to turn his head, to make certain that Ithilrian was still behind him, as the elf’s footsteps were utterly silent.

Thorin shivered. He found that despite the forest’s dank, cold air, he was sweating. He’d lost track of the number of times they’d almost wandered from the path. Only the sharp eyes of Bilbo, Ithilrian, and the younger dwarves, had kept their feet firmly upon it. Several times the stones beneath their feet appeared to vanish entirely, and they were forced to waste valuable time searching for it. 

‘My head is swimming,’ muttered Oin, rubbing bemusedly at his temples. ‘It’s the air. It’s too thick. What’s happening?’ 

‘Keep moving!’ snapped Thorin. He felt his boots dragging, and his steps slowing. ‘We have to keep moving!’ he repeated, wincing at the ring of desperation in his own voice. The air of Mirkwood was beginning to affect them, he realized. It was like walking through a poisonous smog. Bofur was humming merrily under his breath, seemingly lost to the world. Ori was walking like one in a daze, continually treading on Dori’s heels; but for once the fussy dwarf did not seem to mind, content to simply amble forwards with a hazy expression on his face. Dwalin was hefting his axes and growling at nothing in particular. Bilbo was glancing uneasily from side to side, flinching occasionally at something that Thorin could not discern; and Ithilrian had dropped back to her habitual place at the rear of the column, and was stumbling slowly with her eyes open but unseeing, like one walking in a waking dream. 

_That’s odd,_ Thorin thought hazily. _I’ve never seen an elf stumble before. Perhaps she’s not…_

His thought was curtailed by the fact that he’d managed to walk directly into Nori’s back. The canny dwarf was currently heading the column, looking around uncertainly. 

‘What’s happened? Why have we stopped?’ asked Thorin. 

‘The path,’ replied Nori bemusedly. ‘It’s gone.’

He was right. Before their feet lay nothing but a steep drop. There was no sign of the path; and there probably hadn’t been for quite some time, Thorin realized with a groan. They were lost. 

‘Is there no end to this accursed forest?’ he snarled. ‘The path, quickly! We must find it!’ he stalked backwards, past the rest of his cursing company. ‘Search the area!’ 

‘No!’ called Balin. ‘We shouldn’t split up! It would be a disaster!’ 

‘He’s right,’ said Bofur. ‘It’ll be here somewhere. Just need to retrace our steps.’ 

Thorin snarled in frustration. The air was making it difficult to think. He shook his head, trying to dispel the fogginess in his brain as he stalked back to the rear of the column. Bilbo had settled on a tree root, and was idly twanging strands of a giant cobweb that had been spun between two gnarled and twisted branches. Behind him stood Ithilrian, silent and unseeing. 

‘Ithilrian,’ said Thorin, reaching out to grab the elf. ‘We need you. Wake up.’ He took her arm and shook her, hard. She did not respond. ‘Wake up!’ he shouted, all but clawing at her in an effort to pull her attention back to them, panic rising in his throat like bile. The elf’s eyes were open, but the pupils were dilated and unfocussed. ‘Ithilrian!’ he called desperately, shaking her again, as beside him Bilbo hummed a tune and plucked again at one of the spiderwebs surrounding them. 

‘You shouldn’t have done that.’ Without warning, Ithilrian seemed to snap back into the world of the living. But her eyes were not on Thorin; they were on Bilbo. ‘They are coming,’ she added, glancing up, scanning the forest canopy. ‘Draw your sword!’ 

‘My – what?’ mumbled Bilbo. ‘Fresh air,’ the hobbit added drowsily. ‘Need some fresh air. A bit of light in the darkness.’ 

‘What are you talking about?’ Thorin snarled. He tightened his grasp on the elf-maid’s arm, knowing that it was hard enough to hurt: hard enough to force her to look at him. ‘Ithilrian, what’s going on?’ From the corner of his eye he noticed Bilbo beginning to clamber clumsily up one of the trees. 

‘Webs,’ the elf replied, staring down at Thorin. ‘Radagast mentioned the webs, do you remember? Made by some foul spawn of Ungoliant, he said.’ 

‘Ungoliant?’ replied Thorin, struggling to fight off the dizziness that was threatening to take hold. ‘What is that?’ He shook his head, trying to ignore the nausea that was building in his belly, as Ithilrian stooped to speak softly in his ear, loosening her daggers in their sheaths as she did so.

‘Ungoliant was the mother of all spiders,’ she murmured. ‘Be wary. We are alone no longer.’ At any other time, Thorin would have been thrilled to have her so close; to feel her breath upon his neck, the heat of her voice sliding through him, leaving a trail of whispers that set his blood aflame. But not this time. 

Behind them, the rest of the Company was beginning to argue. ‘Quiet!’ Thorin bellowed. His sweating hands closed upon Orcrist’s hilt. ‘Listen! What was that?’ he added, spinning around. Something had moved in the forest, he was certain of it. 

‘We’re being watched,’ snarled Dwalin, axe already in hand. 

‘This whole forest is watching us,’ moaned Dori, glancing frantically around. ‘It’s making my head spin!’ 

‘Look to the trees!’ snapped Ithilrian. She was shaking her head as though to clear it, blinking hard in the dim light. ‘They are coming!’ 

‘Who are?’ called Bofur. ‘I don’t see… _umpf!’_

With a low cry, he collapsed. Thorin spun around swiftly; only to be confronted by the most loathsome sight he’d ever seen in his life. A gigantic spider, its legs knotted and spindly, its body fat and glistening, had dropped right on top of Bofur, knocking him to the floor where he struggled and swore. ‘Gerroff me, y’bastard!’ the hatted dwarf yelled in panic, kicking his steel-capped boots into the pulpy flesh of the monster’s underbelly. The spider recoiled, hissing venomously, only to be impaled by the sharp end of Bifur’s boar spear as he rushed to his brother’s defense. All it took was a hefty wallop from Bombur’s oversized soup ladle; and the creature collapsed, its spindly legs curling up beneath it, a dying hiss sputtering from between dripping fangs.

But before the dwarves could celebrate their victory, a panicked cry from the tree canopy brought them sharply to their senses. ‘There’s more!’ came their hobbit’s panicked squeak. They had forgotten Bilbo. ‘There’s more of them, and they’re coming this way!’ 

‘Bilbo!’ cried Bofur, scrambling to his feet and staring wildly around. ‘Bilbo, where are you?’ He tugged his mattock free, hefting it threateningly. But there was no time to shout further, as in a matter of seconds the rest of the spider horde descended upon them. Thorin bellowed loudly, spinning Orcrist in a deadly whirl as the keen elvish blade sliced through tapering limbs and bloated carapaces alike. Beside him, Dwalin roared, apparently delighted to have something to fight at last, laying about him with Grasper and Keeper until it seemed to be raining dismembered spider legs. Oin and Gloin had formed a foursquare with Balin and Ori, protecting the youngest dwarf as he sent a flurry of sharp stones from his slingshot, blinding the monstrous creatures as they spluttered and hissed in fury. Ithilrian appeared to be everywhere at once, her daggers a flashing blur, stabbing at the monsters that continued to descend from the branches above. Dori and Nori were fighting back to back, hacking and slashing madly. Beside them stood Bilbo, Fili and Kili; and Thorin’s heart lurched into his mouth when he noticed a group of spiders massing unnoticed behind the hobbit and his nephews, their mandibles clicking in anticipation of easy prey.

‘Look out!’ he managed to shout, disemboweling the spider before him with a single thrust before stumbling towards his sister’s sons. He could see the vast, loathsome shapes of the spiders clearly as they scuttled through the trees, hissing venomously and snapping their poisonous fangs. He swallowed the revolted nausea that rose up in his throat as he launched himself at the closest monster, skewering its grotesque weight with Orcrist before spinning wildly to hack at the legs of another. He was aware of Ithilrian passing him as a streak of shimmering silver as she launched herself into the heart of the spider mob, spinning and slashing with preternatural speed at the monsters that threatened to overwhelm her boys. 

The rest of the battle descended rapidly into chaos. More and more spiders seemed to appear as if from nowhere, scuttling and spitting venom as they tried to wind their sticky threads around the thirteen dwarves. Fatigued as he was, it was all Thorin could do to stay upright as he hacked and slashed at the creatures, all finesse lost in their struggle to stay alive. They were moving, cutting a path through the monsters at random, backing up in an unknown direction in an attempt to find somewhere, anywhere, to escape from the hissing horde. 

It seemed to be working. But just as he thought they’d managed to escape the foul beasts, another enormous spider dropped from the branch before them, emitting an ear-splitting shriek. Thorin’s arms shook with exhaustion; but he raised Orcrist grimly once more. But before he could strike the creature seemed suddenly to stumble and choke, flopping sideways with its legs curled beneath it.

‘What the…?’ he muttered, before noticing the arrows protruding from the spider’s abdomen. But a split second later, he found himself staring down the shaft of one of those same arrows. A band of elven hunters appeared, stepping from between the trees as silently as smoke on the wind, surrounding the company with their bows pulled taut and arrows ready. 

‘Do not think I wont kill you, dwarf,’ snarled the elf in front of Thorin. ‘It would be my pleasure.’ His blue eyes burned in his pale face, and a wave of blond hair fell lightly over his shoulders.

‘Halt!’ called Ithilrian. ‘Hold your fire!’ She stepped forwards, pushing her way through the Company, her grey eyes blazing. ‘Lower your weapon,’ she snapped at the blond elf, meeting his gaze fearlessly. ‘We are travellers only. We mean you no harm.’

‘Travellers?’ sneered the blond elf, looking her up and down incredulously, in a manner that made Thorin’s blood boil. ‘I think not. Where are you taking these dwarves? And where are you from?’ His eyes narrowed. ‘For certainly, you are not one of our woodland kin.’ 

‘You got that bloody right,’ muttered Oin into his beard. ‘At least _she’s_ got class.’ He sniffed as the point of an arrow was leveled at his face. ‘All right laddie,’ he added testily, meeting the cold gaze of a sylvan elf. ‘Don’t get yer knickers in a twist.’

‘I asked you a question, elf-maid,’ snapped the blond elf once more, ignoring the muttering dwarves and holding Ithilrian’s gaze. He kept his bow aimed squarely at her heart. ‘You would be wise to speak. Who are you?’ 

Ithilrian smiled grimly, matching the aggressor stare for stare. ‘My name is Ithilrian,’ she replied, stepping deliberately forwards with an air of authority that Thorin had never seen in her before. She practically swaggered up to the Mirkwood elf, one hand resting casually on a dagger hilt, until the tip of his arrow was touching her chest. ‘I have travelled many leagues from my home in the Golden Wood to be here. We have business in the East which is not your concern.’ Her eyes narrowed in fierce challenge, and her lips parted in a dangerous smile. ‘But seeing as you’re here, I suggest you take us to whoever is in charge,’ she added softly. ‘I have some choice words for him, regarding your treatment of travellers.’ 

There was a moment of silence as the elves stared each other down, blue eyes meeting grey. The air was humming with tension. Thorin bit his tongue, fighting the urge to step to her side, recognizing this as a battle of wills. It took several heartbeats; but eventually the wood elf looked away, issuing a series of curt commands in sindarin. Thorin glanced up at Ithilrian, catching her triumphant gaze. The elf nodded slightly, falling back to place one reassuring hand on the dwarf’s broad shoulder. ‘They are taking us to the elven halls,’ she said quietly. ‘There we may negotiate with the King.’ 

‘Negotiate?’ laughed Thorin bitterly, all too aware of the weapons still pointed in their direction. ‘He will not allow us passage, Ithilrian. Not without a price.’ 

‘We shall see,’ replied the elf. ‘Do not lose hope yet, Thorin.’ She turned, as the elven guards stood stiffly around them, beckoning the Company to follow. Thorin smiled grimly, noticing the mithril bead still gleaming in her silver hair. 

‘I will not,’ he replied softly, more to himself than to her. ‘Not yet.’

~

The great gates of the Woodland realm slammed shut behind them. Thorin found himself marched unceremoniously across as winding maze of delicate walkways, into the heart of the elves’ underground kingdom. He glared around him, unimpressed. Graceful and elegant it might have been: but it was nothing compared to the might and majesty of his memories of Erebor. 

_Erebor,_ he thought morosely. _I wonder if we’ll ever make it. Attacked by giant spiders, only to be captured by wood elves…?_ He growled in the back of his throat. _Luck has certainly not been with us,_ he thought bitterly, eyeing the elves that lined the walkways distrustfully. Behind him trotted Bilbo. He noticed with a wry smile that the Halfling did not seem at all intimidated by their surroundings. Rather, he was gazing around him with a sort of dazed expression similar to the one he’d worn in Rivendell. He swallowed hard, trying to keep a reign on the burning anger that rose within him, as the crossed the narrow bridge that brought them into the presence of the long-hated Woodland King. 

To anybody else, Thranduil would undoubtedly cut a powerful and impressive figure, lounging elegantly upon his high throne. But to Thorin, it was a vision that spoke only of rage, and pain, and loss. The memory of the fall of Erebor rose up sharply within his chest, bitter as an edged blade. His breath came in spasming gasps as he stared with narrowed eyes at the cold and distant figure of the elf that had betrayed his grandfather. 

‘Well, what have we here?’ said the Elvenking smoothly, rising in a swirl of robes to descend slowly from his throne. ‘An elf who travels with a pack of common dwarves; who dares to speak so curtly to my son?’ An amused smile flickered for an instant over his otherwise expressionless features. ‘But surely, this is no common dwarf,’ he added, locking eyes with Thorin as he stood beside Ithilrian. ‘You return to Erebor, Thorin son of Thrain?’ he asked softly, his tone mocking. ‘If I didn’t know better, I would say that a noble quest is at hand.’

‘It is.’ Ithilrian stood beside Thorin, holding her head proudly, matching Thranduil’s icy stare with a steely one of her own. ‘I accompany Thorin to the Lonely Mountain. We are tasked with reclaiming their homeland, my lord. Surely there is no more noble quest than this?’ 

‘Indeed?’ Thorin could almost feel the intensity of the stare that the Woodland King turned upon Ithilrian. His eyes were fixed firmly upon hers. The air between them crackled with tension.

‘Indeed,’ replied Ithilrian softly, dangerously. ‘I had looked to find welcome with my ancient woodland cousins,’ she added. ‘Instead, I find that the courtesy of you hall is somewhat lessened of late, my lord Thranduil. Such a shame. My mother once spoke highly of you.’ 

‘Oh?’ A flicker of surprise darted over the Elvenking’s face. He seemed to be utterly ignoring the thirteen dwarves and hobbit that stood before him, focusing all his attention on the slender elf-maid standing before him. ‘Who are you?’ he said quietly, tilting his head to one side. ‘You gave Legolas your name; but I sense that you are hiding something.’ He stepped forwards so that there was barely an inch between them. Thorin clenched his fists. _Too close,_ his inner thought snarled, as jealousy clawed its way up his throat. _I don’t care that he’s a king: that is too close by far._

‘You wish to know who I truly am?’ Ithilrian smiled grimly. ‘Then I shall show you.’ She raised one slender hand, and a blinding flash of white light seared through the cavernous chamber. The Elvenking fell back, a look of astonishment on his face. ‘My name is Ithilrian,’ intoned the elf, in a voice that rose in power and strength until the very cavern seemed to shake. ‘I am a child of Galadriel, daughter of Finarfin and Eärwen of old. The blood of Finwë himself runs in my veins: High King of the Noldor, the fist to bring our people to Valinor.’ A fell light was in her, and for a moment it seemed to Thorin that she appeared not as the gentle healer he knew and loved, but as a queen: beautiful and terrible to behind, towering over the Elvenking, her entire body thrumming with ancient power. She seemed robed all in snowy white, and a star shone upon her brow. Her voice reverberated around the cavern like the cry of a great horn, summoning a host to battle. Thorin felt the blood surge in his veins, as he fought against the sudden urge to throw himself to his knees at her feet. Then, as suddenly as it had come, the vision passed.

He dashed a hand across his eyes, shaking his head to clear it; and there she was beside him, shrunken into a slender elf-maid once more, clad in nothing finer than her tattered cloak and bloodied tunic. But her eyes were shining with anger, and her breath came in short, pained gasps.

‘I…’ Thranduil was mouthing soundlessly; but even as Thorin watched he managed to pull together the shreds of his shattered composure. ‘You are most welcome in my halls, my lady Ithilrian,’ he intoned slowly. Thorin was grudgingly impressed. He could only detect the slightest tremor in the shaken king’s voice. ‘Had I known of your presence within my realm earlier, I would have offered you every courtesy,’ he added. He appeared to be transfixed, staring at Ithilrian as though he had never seen anything like her before: as though she was a star that had descended from the heavens to walk amongst them. 

‘I thank you,’ replied Ithilrian, her voice quieter but still dangerous. ‘Yet I cannot help but notice that my companions have not been offered a similar welcome.’ 

At that, Thranduil seemed to snap out of his reverie. ‘Your companions are… also welcome within my halls,’ he intoned slowly. He turned his head slightly, addressing the elf beside him, but still refusing to tear his gaze from Ithilrian. ‘Take them to one of the guest halls. See that food and drink is brought. As much as is needed.’ He paused, raising one hand dismissively. ‘Have no fears for your friends,’ he said to Ithilrian. ‘They are under my protection now.’ He moved forwards, stepping towards Ithilrian almost tentatively. _‘Tula, vasa ar' yulna en i'mereth,’_ he added softly. _‘Creoso a'baramin, hiril vuin.’_

_‘Ni lassui,’_ replied Ithilrian softly. ‘I thank you, my lord Thranduil, but I must decline. I wish you joy at your feast; but I will not be parted from my companions. Where they go, so do I.’ She took a step back from the Elvenking. Thorin felt a familiar slight weight settle on him as the elf placed one slender hand upon his shoulder. 

‘Very well,’ replied Thranduil slowly, looking from Ithilrian to Thorin questioningly. ‘My people will escort you to the halls. There will be refreshments brought to you; and a change of garb, should you wish it. You shall not want for anything while you are in my realm.’ He paused, gazing at Ithilrian once more. Thorin felt something drop in the pit of his stomach when he noticed the wonderment on Thranduil’s face; how he seemed to almost yearn towards Ithilrian, barely holding himself back from touching her. 

He inclined his elegantly crowned head, before turning and mounting the dais that led back to his throne. Ithilrian squeezed Thorin’s shoulder lightly, indicating that he should walk with her. As if in a daze, he fell into step, as they followed the elven guards back over the walkways, deeper into the heart of the elves’ underground kingdom. 

~

Thorin glanced around nervously, scowling as they were led into a medium-sized hall, lined with graceful soaring pillars, made to look as though the very roots of the trees above had come together in a natural arc. Despite the fact that he was underground, Thorin still felt mightily uncomfortable in the elven halls. 

‘What just happened?’ he heard Ori ask nervously. ‘Miss Ithilrian, what’s going on?’ 

‘We are now guests of the Elvenking,’ replied Ithilrian, smiling gently at the young dwarf. ‘There is nothing further to fear. Except perhaps falling from one of their walkways,’ she muttered darkly. ‘Even at home in Lothlórien, we have the good sense to use handrails.’ 

Kili snorted with laughter. ‘Of all the things you could choose to complain about, and it’s the fact that this place doesn’t have handrails?’ He jumped as several more elves entered the chamber soundlessly, bearing trays laden with food and drink. One of them halted in front of Ithilrian, offering her a low bow. 

‘The King sends his greetings, and his respects, to the Lady of Lórien,’ he intoned formally. ‘And asks that if you have need of anything, to send word: and it will be done. He has also asked me to once again extend his personal invitation to join him for _Mereth nuin Giliath,_ in the halls above.’

‘Thank you,’ replied Ithilrian, fixing the wood elf with a gentle stare. ‘Please offer my compliments to your king; but tell him that I must politely decline his invitation once more.’ 

‘Very well, my lady,’ replied the elf nervously. ‘Fresh clothing has been made available for you,’ he added, indicating another door further down the hall. ‘You will find everything you need in the chamber over there.’ He bowed once more before retreating from the hall. The Company was left alone. 

Thorin let out a long, slow breath, feeling the tension beginning to ease from his shoulders. ‘Well done,’ he muttered to Ithilrian, as they walked towards the food-laden tables. ‘If you hadn’t been here, I dare say things would have gone rather differently.’ 

‘I agree,’ nodded Balin sagely. ‘There’d probably have been a lot more shouting. Although,’ he added, looking at Ithilrian carefully, ‘I must say, you surprised us all in the hall back there. Care to elaborate on what in Durin’s name just happened?’ 

Ithilrian groaned. ‘I am sorry, Balin. I never meant to…’ she shrugged, flopping into a seat, and pulling a wineflask towards her. ‘I don’t go in for displays like that usually,’ she muttered. ‘It’s draining. But it seemed necessary at the time.’ 

‘We’re not complaining!’ interrupted Kili eagerly. ‘You showed Thranduil all right! It was brilliant! But… we’re just not sure what you did. What was all that stuff you were saying, about ancient kings?’ 

Ithilrian sighed. ‘I should have told you before, but I didn’t…’ she shrugged, tailing off awkwardly and glancing at Thorin. ‘I am what you’d probably call ancient elven royalty. My lineage can be traced back through the ages, to one of the very first of the elves to awaken in Arda, beneath the light of the Trees of the Valar. His name was Finwë, the first king of the Noldor.’ 

Balin raised an eyebrow. ‘And you didn’t think to mention this earlier because…?’ 

‘Because she didn’t want all of you acting like fools around her,’ Thorin snarled, interrupting impatiently. ‘I knew, Balin. But she asked me to keep it a secret, and I have done so. I know what it is, to have friends treat you differently because of rank,’ he added bitterly.

Ithilrian inclined her head gently. ‘Thorin speaks the truth,’ she said softly. ‘I begged him not to tell you; and I see he has honored his word.’ She smiled, capturing Thorin with her grey eyes once more. ‘He has always been a dwarf of his word,’ she added quietly. Thorin felt himself reddening beneath her steady gaze. 

‘I did no more than what was asked of me,’ he muttered, feeling the breath hitch in his throat. A warm, soft feeling was flooding through him at the sight of her gentle smile. 

‘So it’s true then? You’re a daughter of… whatever it was?’ Kili leaned forwards eagerly. ‘So should we call you Queen Ithil, or Lady Ithil now, or something?’ 

‘No, you idiot!’ replied Fili, buffeting his brother on the back. ‘Weren’t you even listening? She doesn’t want us to bother with all of that. That’s why she kept it a secret. Right, Miss Ithil?’ 

‘You are correct,’ nodded Ithilrian. Thorin was certain he saw her beginning to blush under their collective scrutiny. ‘I am sorry if you think I deceived you. It was selfish of me. I just…’ she hesitated. The flush on her cheeks became more pronounced. ‘I just wanted to be treated like one of you,’ she added, in a voice that was barely above a whisper. ‘A friend, nothing more. I had been alone for so long, you see; and I couldn’t go home.’ 

‘Aye, well I wouldn’t worry too much if I were you.’ Bofur plonked himself into the seat beside her, throwing a companionable arm around the elf’s narrow shoulders. ‘You’ve got friends in us, lassie. Doesn’t matter if you’re a prince or a pauper here, aye?’ 

‘Indeed.’ Thorin rose to his feet, straightening his tunic and trying to look dignified. ‘Loyalty, honour, and a willing heart. That was what I said, once. That I could ask no more than that.’ He felt his heart pounding furiously as he met her gaze once more, lowering his voice into a gentle baritone rumble. ‘You have given us even more than that, Ithilrian,’ he said quietly. ‘You have given _me_ so much more. For that, I shall be ever at your service.’

‘That’s good, then,’ interrupted Dwalin roughly. ‘This is all very well and grand. But what about all this food, Thorin? It’s not going to eat itself, y’know.’ He indicated the far end of the table, where Bombur and Bifur had already seated themselves, and were quietly devouring every morsel within arm’s reach. 

Thorin sighed wearily as the Company burst into guffaws. ‘Very well,’ he said gruffly. ‘Come on. Let’s eat, drink, and plan our next step. It appears we must remain here overnight; but tomorrow we should move on. Durin’s day is drawing ever closer.’

~

It was growing late. The light of day had long since passed. The lamps had been lit, and the light of distant stars was filtering into the elves’ underground caverns. But in the upper hall, the dwarves were still awake, reveling in the fact that they were no longer cold, hungry, bewildered and lost in the impenetrable depths of Mirkwood. The forest’s peculiarly cloying air seemed not to have spread within the elven realm, Thorin noticed. Within their borders, the forest had still seemed green and pleasant, rife with birdsong and flourishing life; so very unlike the rest of Mirkwood: damp, diseased and decaying. 

Thorin hummed to himself, leaning on the table. The elven attendants had been back and forth several times that evening, bringing more food to the table and refilling the wine flagons whenever they appeared to be running low. Thorin had to grudgingly admit that Thranduil had been as good as his word this time. He certainly hadn’t stinted on either the food or the drink. Even better was the fact that there’d been no further sign of the King himself. One of his guard captains had informed Thorin that some sort of elven feast was being held in the chambers above: _Mereth nuin Giliath_ she had called it, the Feast of Starlight. Thorin remembered the way the red-haired elf’s eyes had lit up when she spoke of it, strangely sorrowful and eager at the same time. 

He shifted in his chair, surveying the room slowly. Ithilrian had vanished some minutes ago, muttering something about a change of clothing. ‘I still reek of… well, whatever this disgusting stuff is,’ she’d grumbled loudly, tugging at her bloodied tunic. ‘A fine princess of Lórien I make, sitting here, stinking of spider guts.’ Thorin smiled to himself at the memory, chuckling at the way her dainty nose had crinkled in disgust, the slight tug of her lips that had turned into an awkward half-smile when she’d met his gaze. 

He was relieved that there had been no unpleasantness on either side when the dwarves had discovered her lineage. For the most part, they seemed content to largely ignore the fact, still calling her _Miss Ithilrian_ and larking around. Kili in particular seemed to find the entire situation hilarious, and had taken to bowing low and jokingly calling her _Queen Ithil_ until the elf’s patience had snapped, and she’d emptied an entire bowl of salad over his head. Thorin laughed softly to himself, remembering the shocked looks of the elven attendants, and the mock-wounded expression on his nephew’s face. The red-haired guard captain had even come over to ask if everything was all right; which Kili had taken swift advantage of, pouting and pretending to be terribly wounded, before swiftly pulling up a chair and patting it invitingly. 

‘Come on,’ he’d coaxed encouragingly, when the elf appeared to hesitate. ‘We’re not all monsters, I promise. I mean, we may still smell a bit, but…’ 

That at least had elicited a small smile from the elf. ‘Very well,’ she had said at last, tucking her long auburn hair behind her pointed ear carefully. ‘I have been assigned to watch over you, anyhow. I have not been forbidden to speak with you.’ 

‘Good!’ Kili had nodded enthusiastically. ‘What’s your name?’ 

‘Tauriel,’ replied the elf, still smiling slightly. ‘I am one of the Captains of the King’s guard.’

‘That’s a pretty name,’ the dwarf prince had told her, grinning cheekily. ‘I’m Kili, by the way. At your service.’ He winked. 

Thorin had felt something drop like a lead weight into his chest. Was his nephew actually… _flirting?_ With an _elf?_

He remembered taking a deep draft of wine to steady himself. There was only one elf in these worth flirting with, he’d thought angrily, almost opening his mouth to tell Kili precisely that. But he’d held his tongue, watching in grudging admiration as his nephew charmed the red-haired guard captain with consummate ease. 

_Durin’s beard,_ he’d thought to himself. _That it should come to this. If only I’d said something – done something – sooner. Ithilrian could be… she might have…_

Now, with the pleasant warmth of the elven wine swirling through his veins, he could not prevent his gaze from wandering towards the door where Ithilrian had vanished. He should go and speak to her, he thought. Now, while she was alone; and before he lost his nerve. 

He glanced swiftly behind him. Despite their initial distrust of the wood elves, the rest of his company had fallen on the food and wine with considerable enthusiasm. Dori was currently having an arm-wrestling competition with Dwalin, who had adamantly refused to relinquish his knuckle-dusters. The rest of the dwarves were cheering them on indiscriminately, shouting encouragement to both sides. Unsurprisingly, Nori was once again taking bets. 

Nobody seemed to be paying him any attention. Quickly and quietly, Thorin slipped from the table, tucking a fresh flask of wine into his pocket as he did so. Unnoticed by the other dwarves, he walked swiftly over to the exit that Ithilrian had passed through, slipping through it soundlessly and walking down the winding passage until he came to another door. He raised a hand and knocked softly.

‘Come in,’ he heard Ithilrian reply immediately. Cautiously he pushed the door open, only to halt in astonishment. Stretching along the chamber walls was rack upon rack of clothing. An enormous quantity of elven finery was laid out, in every imaginable colour, long gowns and robes sewn with heavy jewels that sparkled in the lamplight. And there, standing before it all, with a frustrated expression upon her face, was Ithilrian. 

‘Would you believe it?’ the elf said to him over her shoulder, as he pulled the door closed behind them. ‘All these robes, yet still I cannot find a thing to wear.’ 

‘Really?’ Thorin winced internally at how strained his voice sounded. _Come on, you can do better than that!_ his inner thought goaded him. ‘Can I… offer you any assistance?’ he added nervously. 

Ithilrian sighed. ‘It all looks so… regal. I had hoped to find something simple, like a change of tunic. But no, Thranduil insists apparently: nothing but the finest gowns will do for the Princess of Lórien.’ She laughed shortly. ‘I never do well with gowns or robes,’ she added. ‘I’m always afraid I’ll trip over something.’ She had removed her cloak and overtunic, Thorin realized. She was leaning against a low table, wearing nothing but her leggings and a thin shirt. He swallowed hard, feeling his face beginning to redden. 

‘I don’t think… I mean, I’m hardly the one qualified to…’ he muttered awkwardly, gazing along the racks of clothing, until something caught his eye. He stepped forwards, tugging at the thin material. ‘This one,’ he added, glancing over his shoulder to find Ithilrian staring at him with an amused expression on her face. ‘If you wanted to wear any of these, that is. I believe those are your colours.’ 

‘You think?’ Ithilrian stepped forwards, running her hand over the fine silk. The dress was a pale ethereal blue with silver stitching, laced with twinkling sapphires and chips of glimmering opal. 

‘I do,’ nodded Thorin, his confidence buoyed by the wine, and by Ithilrian’s encouraging smile. ‘If nothing else, it will complement the bead in your hair,’ he added, feeling his heart begin to hammer ferociously. 

‘In that case, I shall try it,’ replied Ithilrian, taking it down from the rack. ‘Do you mind, Thorin?’ she added, blushing. It took him several seconds to realize that he was still staring at her; and she wanted to get changed. 

‘Oh Mahal – I’m sorry,’ he said, spinning on the spot and reaching for the door. A low, silvery laugh stopped him in his tracks.

‘You don’t have to leave, Thorin. Just keep your back turned. Elves are a modest folk, after all.’ 

‘I… okay.’ Thorin swallowed hard. He clenched his fists tightly, feeling his nails digging sharply into the flesh of his palms, trying to ignore the swishing sounds of clothing being removed, and Ithilrian’s slightly heavier breathing. 

‘I can go,’ he muttered, shifting awkwardly from one foot to the other. ‘I can wait outside.’ A familiar heat was blooming within him, tracing red-hot fingers through his chest, over his stomach, and down into his loins, where an uncomfortable tightness was growing, beginning to press hard against the fabric of his breeches. _Durin’s beard,_ he thought desperately. _Not here! Not now! Calm down, for Mahal’s sake!_

‘There is no need,’ he heard Ithilrian say behind him. ‘I’m almost done. Besides, I’m certain you didn’t come and find me just to talk about dresses.’ She paused, and once again Thorin was forced to try and ignore the soft sounds of cloth sliding over bare skin. _Don’t turn around,_ he told himself sternly. _Don’t you dare._

‘Umm… no,’ he replied, trying to regain control of his breathing. It took several seconds for him to realize that in fact, he had absolutely no idea what he was about to try and say.

‘So, what was it that you wanted, _hîr vuin?’_ Ithilrian asked. ‘You may turn around now,’ she added. 

Slowly, keeping his hands clenched, Thorin turned around, trying to retain at least some semblance of control over himself. But whether it was the potency of the sweet elvish wine, or whether it had simply been too long since he’d allowed himself to look at her, to _really_ look at her properly, he didn’t know. All he knew was that his jaw dropped open at the sight that met his eyes, while his heart pounded so furiously in his chest that he thought it might burst. 

He had been right. The pale blue gown suited her perfectly. It cascaded over her slender body in rippling waves of shimmering silk, the wide neckline falling just off her shoulders, sparkling with tiny jewels. In place of sleeves there was simply a flowing length of blue chiffon, which left her pale arms bare. He felt his breath hitch at the sight of her creamy skin, the taut line of her bicep visible beneath the thin fabric, a vision of beauty, grace and strength. 

‘Thorin?’ she was looking at him apprehensively, concern flickering in her grey eyes. ‘Are you alright?’ She glanced down at herself. A shadow seemed to pass over her face at his silence. ‘Foolishness,’ he heard her mutter, as though speaking to herself. One hand came up to twist nervously in her silver hair, the other passing over her heart, clenching as if remembering an old wound. 

‘You’re beautiful.’ Thorin heard the words falling from his own mouth before he had the chance to stop them. They spilled from him unbidden, a statement of truth so clear to his eyes that he found his breathing becoming easier, as a great weight seemed to lift itself from his chest. 

‘Wh… what?’ Ithilrian froze. Her eyes widened, fixing him with a bright, questioning gaze. ‘Thorin, what did you say?’

_There it is again,_ he thought. There was something in her eyes, which he had seen before but had not understood; something like hope and fear mingled, glowing brightly in her strange pale gaze. 

‘You are beautiful,’ he repeated, amazed at how easily the words slipped from his tongue. ‘Ithilrian...’ He hesitated, gazing up at the woman who had long held his thoughts enraptured. ‘To my eyes, you shine more brightly than any star in the heavens,’ he said softly. ‘Far brighter than any jewel beneath the earth.’ He hesitated; searching for the right words: the ones that would tell her what was in his heart. ‘I know that I am nothing more than a dwarf without a home, and a king without a crown,’ he said slowly. ‘But I swear by all that I hold dear, Silver Lady of Lórien, that I love nothing in the world so much as you.’ 

‘Thorin.’ Ithilrian’s voice was a hoarse whisper. She seemed to tremble beneath his gaze, her hands clutching at the table behind her for support. ‘Thorin, I beg of you, only say those words if you truly mean them.’ Her voice cracked; and Thorin’s heart twisted within his chest to hear the fear that laced her words. ‘My heart… I could not bear it if…’ She drew in a sharp, pained breath, and Thorin was amazed to see tears unshed shining in her eyes. 

‘I mean it,’ he said, stepping towards her, trying to pour his heart, his very soul, into his words. ‘I mean every single syllable, Ithilrian. I have loved you, in silence and from afar, for too long.’ He took another tentative step towards her, as the elf sank down upon the table behind her as though her legs could no longer bear her weight. 

‘Then Thorin, why… why have you never spoken of this before?’ she asked, seeming utterly bewildered.

‘Because you’re…’ Thorin hesitated, waving a hand towards her. ‘You are so far beyond my reach,’ he murmured softly. ‘Do not deny it, Ithilrian. You have _everything_ : beauty, power, strength, immortality. Why then, would I think you could care for… that you might even consider…’ He gulped, the words seizing in his throat, choking him, as he gazed at her in growing desperation. ‘Could you?’ he asked, his voice sinking, becoming little more than a whisper. ‘Ithilrian, could you care for a dwarf?’ 

‘Oh, Thorin,’ replied Ithilrian softly, a warm, joyous smile spreading over her face like the rising of the sun. ‘I have loved you since the day I first laid eyes upon you,’ she said simply. Her voice was so quiet it was barely audible. ‘I gave you my heart that day, Thorin Oakenshield; and you have carried it these past ten years, although you knew it not.’

Thorin swallowed hard. Something hot and wonderful was coiling inside his chest, making a foolish grin stretch itself over his face, making his heart thunder in the cavern of his chest. _She loves me._ His inner thought was babbling, repeating the same phrase over and over again. He closed the gap between them, reaching for her tentatively, trying not to laugh with delight when she reached for him too, settling her hand upon his arm and smiling bashfully. 

‘Thorin,’ she whispered. She was so close. Close enough to touch; close enough to kiss. His lips trembled with anticipation, and a tingling giddiness surged through him when he gazed deep into her eyes, finally allowing himself to become utterly lost in the swirling silver depths. _If this is all a dream, then I never want to wake from it,_ he thought, leaning forwards slowly, pulling himself towards her, feeling her breath ghosting over his cheek as he dipped his head…

‘Uncle!’ 

A shout from the end of the room shattered the moment. Startled, they jerked apart. Thorin growled as a shudder of fury rippled through him. _‘What?’_ he snarled, turning his head, glowering at Fili and Kili as they practically fell into the room. 

‘There you are, Uncle! Have you seen…?’ Kili’s voice tailed off as he stared at his wrathful uncle in confusion. He watched his nephew’s eyes dart right and left, before widening in horror when they realized exactly what they’d just interrupted. With a startled yelp, both young dwarves took to their heels, darting out of the room and slamming the door behind them. 

‘Oh dear.’ Ithilrian’s soft voice from behind him drew his attention back towards her. ‘Well, any hope you had of secrecy is now gone, I fear.’ She was sitting on the table still, her hands clutching the edge tightly. She was avoiding his gaze, her expression downcast. ‘Thorin, I didn’t mean…’ 

Thorin could wait no longer. In a single sweeping movement he pulled her close, one powerful arm wrapping around her waist, the other reaching up to curl his fingers in her hair, as he pressed his lips to hers in a fierce, urgent kiss. For a moment she was tense, rigid in his arms; before a shiver ran through her, and she melted into his embrace. Her lips parted in silent invitation; and Thorin felt a something raw and primal ripple through him as he took her mouth for his own, tasting her deeply, delighting in her sweetness, which felt like honey on his tongue. Her lips were soft and pliant, pushing up against his with a sense of desperate urgency as he pulled her flush against his chest. 

All too quickly, it ended. Thorin pulled away, his heart pounding, feeling suddenly dizzy as he stared at the woman before him. Her lips were still wet and glistening, and slightly swollen from his attentions. But her eyes were shining more brightly than any star he’d ever seen; and the slow smile that spread over her face lit a fierce joy inside of him. 

‘Are you all right?’ he asked tentatively. 

‘Yes.’ Ithilrian chuckled, and he reveled in the sound of her gentle laughter. ‘I am more than all right, Thorin. I feel whole again.’ 

‘What do you mean by that?’ Thorin asked, raising one hand to cup her cheek, brushing a careful thumb over her fragile cheekbone. 

‘I mean that… well, it’s complicated,’ she tailed off, shrugging awkwardly. ‘An explanation can wait, surely? There’s something else I’d much rather do instead…’

Thorin grinned as she reached for him again, lacing her hands through his mane of dark hair and pulling him towards her. This time it was she who initiated the kiss, slow and languid, without a trace of earlier desperation, as though she was exploring him, mapping his mouth with her tongue, determined to uncover every single inch of him. He gave in willingly, allowing her to take his mouth as her own, shivering slightly as unfamiliar pleasure rippled through his body.

‘By the Valar,’ Ithilrian murmured, when they finally pulled apart again. ‘That was… something I’ve been wanting to do for longer than I care to admit.’ 

‘Since we first met?’ murmured Thorin, chuckling at her surprised expression. ‘I recall well what you said just now, Ithilrian.’ 

The elf pursed her lips, making a small effort to conceal the laughter that was bubbling up within her. ‘Lest you forget, my dear Thorin, we first met in a rain-soaked tent on the outskirts of some Valar-forsaken village, where you were dying from a poisoned wound in your shoulder.’ She raised a single, elegant eyebrow. ‘I must say that the idea of kissing you was not exactly at the forefront of my mind.’ 

‘So… they day after, then?’ he prompted, grinning. 

‘Yes,’ admitted Ithilrian, unable to contain her laughter any more. ‘Yes, after I’d healed you, and you were sleeping peacefully once more. That was why I asked to accompany you, do you remember?’ 

Thorin chuckled loudly. ‘I remember. It seems like a lifetime ago.’ He paused, taking her hand and pressing it gently. ‘I meant every word I said before,’ he told her gently, looking into her eyes, willing her to understand the depth of his sincerity. ‘You have my heart, Ithilrian. I swear it.’ 

_‘Gerog i chûn nîn mi i chaim gîn,’_ she replied softly. ‘That means, you hold my heart in your hands.’ She raised one of his hands, pressing it against her chest. Thorin’s pulse jumped as he felt the strong, steady beat pulsing beneath his palm. 

‘It has been in your keeping for longer than you knew,’ the elf said simply. ‘I beg you, take good care of it.’ 

‘I shall,’ Thoin replied, a fierce protective pride blooming suddenly within him. ‘I shall care for it, and you, for as long as I live.’ He pulled her towards him for one last kiss, soft and sweet as honeyed wine. Her taste lingered on his tongue even after he pulled away. 

‘I suppose we should be getting back to the others,’ he muttered reluctantly. ‘Mahal only knows what Fili and Kili are telling the rest of the Company.’ 

‘You’re right.’ Ithilrian sighed, running her fingers through Thorin’s hair once more before releasing him. ‘You’re not… ashamed of me?’ she asked quietly, looking at him with gentle concern. ‘You don’t mind that the others know?’ 

‘Mind?’ Thorin chuckled, long and low. ‘Don’t worry, Ithilrian. They’ve known how I felt for a little while now.’ 

‘They have?’ replied Ithilrian incredulously. ‘And nobody thought to say anything to me?’ 

Thorin shrugged. ‘I wanted to tell you myself, rather than have you hear it second-hand from Balin, or one of my idiot nephews. Besides, I think this worked out, eventually.’ 

Ithilrian huffed, allowing Thorin to pull her from the table. ‘Be that as it may, I shall be having a few choice words with your beloved nephews later,’ she said. The long pale gown rippled and swirled around her as she stretched. Thorin could barely take his eyes off her. _I did it,_ he thought triumphantly. _I told her how I felt – and she feels the same way. She loves me. She is mine and I am hers. How did this happen? How is this possible?_

‘Come on,’ he said aloud. ‘Let’s get this over with. But be warned: I fully expect to be deafened by the shouting as soon as we enter the room.’ 

~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Elvish translation notes: 
> 
>  
> 
> Hîr vuin = my lord  
> Hiril vuin = my lady  
> Man cerig? = What are you doing?  
> Uuma ma' ten' rashwe. Ta tuluva a' lle. = Do not look for trouble. It will come to you.  
> Na lû e-govaned vîn. = Until we next meet.  
> Tula, vasa ar' yulna en i'mereth. = Come, eat and drink of the feast.  
> Creoso a'baramin, hiril vuin. = Be welcome in my halls, my lady.  
> Ni lassui = thank you  
> Gerog i chûn nîn mi i chaim gîn = You hold my heart in your hands.


	35. The Elven Halls

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the courting couple return to the rest of the Company, and Ithilrian discovers that their reaction isn't quite what she'd been expecting.

It was with no small amount of trepidation that Ithilrian followed Thorin back towards the elven hall where their companions were waiting. Her thoughts were whirling, bewilderment chasing joy through the corridors of her mind, fast enough to make her head spin and her steps falter. _It cannot be true,_ her thoughts repeated insistently. _May the Valar have mercy, it cannot be true… can it?_ She raised a hand to press a wondering finger to her lips, to find them still wet and tingling from Thorin’s mouth. She swallowed hard, remembering the fierce pressure of his lips, the rasp of his beard as he’d kissed her, with such fire within him that Ithilrian was almost certain she’d melt beneath his touch. The heat of him had almost been too much to bear; as if the dwarf had a furnace inside him that was radiating warmth, despite the thick layers of leather and mail he still wore. She felt it when he’d traced his hands over the bare skin of her arms, as though she was burning up beneath his touch. Gentle as he had been, his fingers had left a trail of fire in their wake. She could still feel traces of it. 

Her pace slowed as they approached the door. A strange reluctance gripped her. It had been hard enough to admit her love to Thorin in the privacy of the separate chamber, where there had been no prying eyes to witness their actions – save for Fili and Kili, she remembered with a sigh. It would be quite another thing entirely, once they were back beneath the collective scrutiny of the Company. Was Thorin right, had the rest of the dwarves already known? Had they been expecting this? Would they be happy for them? Or perhaps they’d be disgusted; an elf and a dwarf, after all, was hardly the most widely accepted pairing in Middle Earth. Would they say anything? Would they think…? 

‘Ithilrian?’ Thorin paused, one hand on the door handle, looking back at her. She realized belatedly that she’d come to a halt several paces from the door. ‘What is it?’ he asked, his brow furrowing with gentle concern. ‘What’s wrong?’

‘It’s…’ Ithilrian hesitated, stumbling over her words. ‘I feel a little… apprehensive,’ she admitted eventually. ‘Thorin, this… us…’ She shook her head irritably, struggling to say what she meant. ‘My feelings for you… they have been an intensely private and personal matter for a long time,’ she managed to say. ‘And… truth to tell, they have been a source of grief more often than joy. I never thought to have them reciprocated. So to have everything turned around so swiftly; to discover that you could… that you might…’ 

_Why can I not say the words?_ She thought furiously. He was staring up at her, his blue eyes gentle, as though trying to encourage the words from her faltering tongue. 

‘I am afraid,’ she said suddenly. Her hands quivered with the sudden tremor of nerves that fluttered through her. 

‘Afraid?’ Thorin was at her side in an instant. ‘Of what?’ 

‘Of running before I can walk,’ she replied. ‘Of taking our newfound closeness too far, before I am ready. Before _we_ are ready.’ She gazed down at him, feeling her heart pounding in her chest, willing him to understand. ‘It has taken so long,’ she whispered softly. ‘So long for us to reach even this. Please, you must forgive my hesitance. It is not out of any lack of desire on my side.’ She bit her lip, before carefully kneeling on the floor before him, looking him in the eye. 

‘Do not you kneel to me,’ Thorin murmured, reaching out one gentle hand and cupping her face with such careful tenderness she thought her heart might break. 

‘Then please, indulge an old elf in her foolishness?’ asked Ithilrian softly. ‘Lest you forget, Thorin, I am over five thousand years old. And throughout all the ages of this world I have endured, I… have never taken a lover. This, all of this… it’s so new. Even the gentlest of your kisses are frightening in their intensity.’ 

‘Frightening?’ Thorin asked softly, looking at her in bewilderment. ‘That’s not what I intend, Ithilrian. I would keep you safe… protect you, as is my duty…’ 

‘I know.’ Ithilrian sighed softly, lowering her head to touch her forehead to Thorin’s briefly. ‘There is much I have not told you,’ she murmured. ‘About how the bonds are formed between elven couples. I doubt it is overly similar to the younger races.’ 

‘Then can you tell me now?’ asked Thorin. She caught a hint of anxiety in his quietly murmured words. ‘I want this to be right, Ithilrian. I don’t want to mess everything up through not knowing you ways, your customs.’

Ithilrian laughed softly. ‘The same goes for myself,’ she told him. ‘But this much I shall tell you now. The bond between elven couples is forged threefold, so it may be as strong as tempered steel. Firstly, the heart leads. It must yearn towards the other strongly enough to create the first link.’ 

‘Well, I believe we’ve got that part right so far,’ replied Thorin, looking up at her with an earnest expression. ‘What follows?’ 

‘Secondly is the spirit,’ Ithilrian continued, trying hard to conceal her laughter at how determined he appeared to be, to understand all she was telling him. ‘That is the mental connection between us, Thorin. It ensures that we may speak as equals, with mutual trust and respect.’ 

‘I see.’ Thorin nodded, smiling slightly. ‘At a guess, I would imagine that we have done a little of that over the night watches that we’ve shared, yes?’ 

Ithilrian nodded. ‘You are correct.’ She smiled fondly as Thorin grinned in triumph.

‘So we’ve spoken of the heart, the spirit… what is the third?’ he asked. 

She hesitated momentarily before replying. ‘The body,’ she replied softly. ‘It is the final touches that burn and bind, the physical union that completes the bond; tying us together with a threefold knot that not even death may break.’ She swallowed hard, feeling the heat rising within her as she did so. 

‘…Oh.’ Thorin’s eyes latched onto hers, darkening with intensity, burning with a midnight fire as his gaze seemed to pierce her very soul. ‘Is it just… or does that mean _every_ time I lay a hand on you…?’ he asked, slowly and hesitantly. 

‘Yes,’ she murmured. ‘To a greater or lesser extent.’ She shivered. ‘It is a heady feeling, Thorin. Not unlike taking a great draft of strong wine on an empty stomach. Your every touch burns itself into my skin.’ 

‘Is that… bad? Does it hurt?’ he asked anxiously, swiftly pulling back the hand that still cupped her cheek. ‘I’m sorry if it…’ 

‘No.’ She reached out, taking his hand in hers, and replacing it carefully. ‘No,’ she repeated softly, trying to ignore the way her whole body seemed to tremble beneath his touch. From the darkening of Thorin’s gaze, she knew that he had noticed it to. 

‘Then… I shall endeavor to be careful,’ he said slowly. ‘I do not wish to rush you, Ithilrian. I will wait for you to come to me when you feel that you are ready.’ He tilted his head slightly as though asking permission. Ithilrian found herself smiling with sheer relief at his understanding and acceptance, dipping her head, allowing him to press his lips to hers in a gentle, chaste kiss. 

‘Thank you,’ she said quietly as they pulled apart. ‘I will not take overlong to adjust to this, I hope.’ 

‘That is my hope too,’ Thorin replied, his mouth hovering beside her ear. ‘Because I cannot deny that every fiber of my being yearns for you, Ithilrian. I am burning to feel your touch, your embrace: to join with you.’ His voice was low enough to send a tremor of desire rippling through her entire body. ‘But I shall wait,’ he added. ‘For as long as you deem necessary.’ He pulled away from her, offering his hand to help her to her feet. 

She accepted, smiling. ‘In the meantime, perhaps you can tell me more about your side?’ she asked. ‘Like yourself, I have no desire to slight you, or your race, though my limited knowledge of dwarven customs.’ 

Thorin laughed, long and low, as they turned towards the hall once more. Ithilrian’s heart fluttered at the exquisite beauty of that precious sound. ‘I am sure my Company, and my nephews especially, will be falling over themselves to tell you those,’ he replied drily. ‘I suspect they will be especially eager to point out my errors.’ 

‘You errors?’ asked Ithilrian, arching an eyebrow in amusement. ‘Besides offering yourself to an elf, you mean?’ 

‘Besides that, yes,’ chuckled Thorin. ‘Although to my mind, that is not an error. It may indeed be the only sensible thing I’ve done in a decade. I’m certain Fili and Kili would agree upon that point.’ 

‘Then… they will not mind?’ Ithilrian asked softly. ‘Your nephews, your company… they will not object to our union?’

‘Are you joking?’ Thorin asked, his eyes widening in surprise. ‘Durin’s beard, Ithilrian, they have been plaguing me for days now, trying to help me work up the courage to speak with you. I imagine they will be ecstatic.’ His sniffed. ‘Save Nori, perhaps,’ he added as an afterthought. ‘He’s been taking wagers, I hear. Doubtless somebody will have lost coin over this.’ 

Ithilrian shook her head in bewildered delight, not even trying to suppress the laughter that bubbled up within her. ‘Then… it would appear that my fears have been entirely without cause?’ 

‘Perhaps,’ nodded Thorin, smiling encouragingly. ‘Although I am sure everyone will want to make a fuss over you. Over us. Over… well, everything.’ He shrugged awkwardly. ‘You do not mind?’ 

‘Mind?’ Ithilrian replied, her heart singing. ‘Thorin, I am overwhelmed with joy. Let them fuss. It has been a long and difficult road, after all. We must snatch what happiness we can along the way, yes?’ 

‘That sounds like a wise sentiment.’ Thorin nodded decisively, one hand upon the door, before pausing and looking back at her hesitantly. ‘The elves,’ he muttered. ‘What will their reactions be? And Thranduil, what of him? For surely it will not be long before he finds out.’ 

‘To the void with him,’ replied Ithilrian firmly. ‘I care not what any of his folk may say, Thorin. They may approve or disapprove as they like: I am not willing to lose you.’ She placed a comforting hand upon his shoulder, squeezing gently. ‘Besides, I spoke with my _ammë_ some time ago,’ she added. ‘My own kin have already given me their blessing. What more could I desire, _veleth nîn?’_

Thorin chuckled, offering her his arm. ‘We’ll see. Perhaps you won’t be so quick to laugh when my nephews decide to start calling you Auntie Ithil. They’ve been doing so in khuzdul already, you know.’ 

‘They have?’ Ithilrian raised her eyebrows in surprise, reaching down to loop her hand through his arm carefully. ‘The cheeky young…’ her words trailed off as Thorin pushed the door open. He frowned in surprise when a thump and a startled squawk came from the other side. 

‘What the…?’ he muttered, pushing again. The door swung wide, revealing Kili, who was sitting ruefully on the floor and rubbing at his head.

‘You didn’t have to push the door that hard,’ he muttered resentfully. ‘I’m going to have a bump now.’ 

‘What were you even doing?’ replied Thorin, scowling. 

‘Nothing!’ the younger dwarf replied quickly. ‘Nothing at all. Just… sitting. With my head against the door. As you do.’ He grinned, springing to his feet, and glancing expectantly between Thorin and Ithilrian, nodding pointedly towards their linked arms. He rattled off a swift string of staccato khuzdul syllables. Ithilrian rolled her eyes, unable to follow the words, but guessing their meaning well enough. Thorin hesitated and turned towards her, raising an eyebrow slightly as though seeking permission. She smiled gently and nodded. 

Thorin turned back to Kili, nodding and delivering a short, sharp sentence in equally rapid khuzdul. At least, it might have been a short sentence; if it wasn’t, the collective whoops and cheers of the Company drowned the rest of it out. Ithilrian found herself falling backwards, hitting the floor with a gasp of shock, as first Kili and then Fili both flung themselves at her bodily, pulling the surprised elf into one of their bone-crushing hugs, laughing all the while. 

‘Boys,’ she gasped, managing to suck a little air back into her lungs. ‘You’re going to have to stop doing that one day. Will one of you please tell me what just happened? I don’t speak dwarvish, remember!’ 

‘Don’t worry Auntie Ithil, you’ll learn!’ gurgled Kili happily, his head buried somewhere around her midriff. ‘I’ll help! It’ll be brilliant!’ 

‘Wh…?’ Ithilrian began to laugh, painfully at first, then a little more freely as one by one Thorin grabbed his giggling nephews and heaved them bodily off of her. 

‘Show her some respect, both of you,’ he snarled, tugging first Fili and then Kili away from the prone elf. ‘Have you no manners? How am I supposed to court Ithilrian properly, and show her the worthiness of our family and our people, when you two insist on behaving like giggling imbeciles?’ 

‘But we’ve always behaved like that!’ cried Kili, scowling, ignoring his bother’s splutter of indignation. ‘Ithil knows us well enough by now, Uncle! Don’t you, Miss Ithil?’ he added beseechingly, his eyes wide, gazing up at the laughing elf as she pulled herself back to her feet, readjusting the set of her gown.

‘Oh dear,’ giggled Ithilrian, unable to put a reign on her mirth. ‘Have a care, Kili. I fear that if you attempt to widen your eyes any more, they will fall out.’ She put a hand over her mouth, muffling an undignified snort of laughter at the young dwarf’s mock-wounded expression. ‘Oh, come here,’ she added fondly, kneeling carefully, and opening her arms for another embrace. ‘Sweet, silly boys,’ she murmured, pulling them close one by one. ‘Did Thorin just tell you all what I think he did?’ she added, addressing the rest of the beaming dwarves. Ori blushed to the roots of his hair, and Balin chuckled appreciatively.

‘Indeed he did, Miss Ithilrian,’ the white-bearded dwarf replied, his eyes twinkling merrily as he came to stand before them. ‘I believe some congratulations are in order.’ To Ithilrian’s surprise, he offered them a low, sweeping bow. ‘May your courtship be blessed,’ he intoned solemnly. ‘May Mahal guide and guard you both.’ 

‘Thank you Balin,’ replied Ithilrian, gratified. ‘Is that the proper dwarven term for it, then? Courtship?’ 

‘It is,’ nodded Balin. ‘Why? Do your folk have a different word?’

‘I do not know. Perhaps not one that is translatable into Westron. We simply… love, and are loved in return. Our courtships are swift, and not overly complex.’ She shot a look at Thorin, surprised to see him blushing slightly. 

‘Oh?’ asked Ori eagerly. ‘What are they like then?’ 

‘Intense,’ muttered Thorin, seemingly partly to himself, shooting her a look that sent a shiver of heat down her spine. ‘But brief. As I understand it, we have already completed the first two important stages.’

‘Oh, well that’s good!’ cried Fili excitedly. ‘Can we help at all? What’s the third?’ 

‘The third is _not_ something I intend to discuss in front of you children,’ retorted Ithilrian sharply, feeling heat flushing into her cheeks. 

‘What do you… _oh!’_ Fili spluttered, realization dawning. ‘Come on Kili,’ he added, tugging his brother away as he opened his mouth. ‘Don’t ask any more questions! You might not like the answers!’ 

Thorin chuckled at the sight. ‘Now that’s one way of getting them to stop asking,’ he murmured, as in an instant they were surrounded by the rest of the company, beaming and offering congratulations. 

‘Well! It’s only taken long enough!’ cried Oin loudly, pounding a fist on the table triumphantly. ‘We were beginning to lose hope, weren’t we?’

‘Not in the slightest,’ retorted Balin, chuckling into his wine. ‘I had faith in you, laddie. And you too of course, m’lady. I always knew you’d work it out eventually.’ 

‘Aye,’ grinned Dwalin. The tattooed warrior had abandoned his usual scowl; but the broad smile that was stretched across his scarred face was, if anything, even more frightening. ‘Took ye long enough. Still, it’s out in the open now. And that, I believe, wins me the bet.’ 

‘You think so?’ replied Nori tartly.

‘I bloody do, and you know it,’ snapped Dwalin, rounding on the sniggering thief. 

‘Now now,’ called Bofur merrily. ‘I’m sure we can settle all wagers amicably. This is a happy occasion, after all, aye? One that calls for a drink!’ 

‘It certainly does,’ replied Gloin, raising his tankard high. ‘To our King and his Lady!’ bellowed the redbearded dwarf, his thick accent cutting over the rest of the dwarves, who were beginning to squabble about wagers. ‘May we claim the Mountain swiftly, so they may rule in Erebor’s glory!’ 

‘To the King and his Lady!’ echoed the rest of the dwarves, raising their own respective tankards and goblets high. ‘Long live the King!’ 

‘And the Queen,’ added Balin smugly, raising his glass towards Ithilrian. ‘For that is what you’ll be to us, lass.’ 

‘Can we call you Auntie now?’ interrupted Fili, draining his goblet and slamming it on the table. ‘Auntie Ithil, it’s got a good ring to it!’ He glanced between Thorin and Ithilrian excitedly. 

‘Of course you can, Fili,’ Ithilrian replied, feeling a contented warmth bloom in her chest at the sight of the prince’s smile. ‘You are welcome to call me whatever you like. So long as it sits well with your Uncle,’ she added, glancing sideways at Thorin. ‘I am not of your blood, after all.’

‘It matters not.’ Thorin’s voice was a low, comforting rumble. ‘Never did I think to see they day that my sister’s sons would call an elf family,’ he added, with a short bark of laughter. ‘Then again, never in my wildest dreams did I expect…’ he trailed off, taking Ithilrian’s hand and giving it a quick, comforting squeeze. ‘I believe we have both been very foolish,’ he added. 

‘Foolish?’ A small voice piped up. ‘I suppose that’s one word for it. I can think of better ones, though.’ 

Turning in surprise, Ithilrian caught sight of Bilbo, standing beside her and grinning widely, one hand tucked into his waistcoat pocket. ‘Well done, by the way. It’s taken you long enough,’ he added, rocking backwards on his heels happily. ‘Honestly, I didn’t know what I could do to prod you two together. But apparently, all it took was a couple of near-death situations, and a few glasses of elvish wine. Who would have thought?’

‘Bilbo!’ Ithilrian laughed, feeling some of the tension draining from her body at the sight of the beaming Halfling. ‘Where have you been?’ 

‘Been?’ replied the hobbit, shaking his head slightly. ‘I’ve been here the whole time. I suspect that you were just a little too… distracted to notice me.’ He coughed lightly, fidgeting with something in his waistcoat pocket, before dropping his hand and clasping both of them behind his back. ‘It’s just something we hobbits are naturally good at,’ he added, nodding encouragingly. ‘We can go unnoticed by most of the Big Folk if we need to.’ 

‘Useful qualities for a burglar,’ rumbled Thorin, taking a seat at the table, offering his hand for Ithilrian to sit beside him. She lowered herself into the chair, accepting the glass of wine that was pushed into her hand by a beaming Bifur. He rattled something off in rapid khuzdul, nodding and grinning widely. 

‘He says, may you live long and happily together, beneath the safety and protection of Mahal’s hammer,’ interrupted Bofur, nodding and winking at Ithilrian. ‘It’s an old dwarven blessing. Usually said at weddings, of course. But this seems as good a time as any.’ 

‘That is a beautiful sentiment. Thank you,’ Ithilrian said shyly, smiling at Bifur as he nodded and grinned, blushing slightly under her scrutiny. ‘You have all been so wonderfully accepting,’ she added. ‘I never thought this would happen.’

‘Aye, well as I’ve said before, we dwarves are full of surprises,’ replied Bofur easily. Ithilrian did not miss the wink he threw at Bilbo, or the way the hobbit blushed to the tips of his pointed ears. ‘What about your lot?’ he added, pulling up the chair beside Ithilrian. ‘What do the elves think of all this?’

‘Which elves?’ replied Ithilrian, taking a sip of wine. ‘You must be more specific, _mellon nîn._ We are not all the same.’

‘You’re not?’ Bofur waggled his eyebrows.

‘No,’ a low female voice interrupted. ‘We are not.’ Ithilrian turned in her seat. Unnoticed, the red-haired guard captain from before had appeared in the doorway, eyeing the company with an amused expression on her delicate features. ‘I had intended to ask if any further refreshments were required,’ she added, stepping lightly into the room. ‘I did not mean to eavesdrop. However…’ 

‘It is difficult not to,’ finished Ithilrian, nodding in agreement. ‘I have already told them how sharp elven hearing can be. Alas, they do not listen.’ 

‘So you heard what has been said.’ Thorin spoke in a low voice, his tone carefully neutral as he eyed Tauriel from beneath lowered brows. 

‘I did,’ she replied, in an equally neutral tone. 

‘All of it?’ He raised one eyebrow questioningly. She hesitated, before nodding.

‘And…?’ he asked her. ‘What do you think? Will the wood elves dispute this match?’

Tauriel shrugged. ‘I cannot speak for all of my folk. I am but a single elf, after all. However, I do not think so. I’m aware that your relationship is not without precedent.’ 

‘Oh?’ Kili said excitedly, scooting over to stand beside her. ‘What does that mean, exactly?’ 

‘Do you not know the tale?’ she asked, surprised. ‘There is a poem, the Lay of Leithian, one of the first things we are taught as elflings.’ 

‘A poem?’ Kili wrinkled his nose. ‘Is that it?’ 

‘It is memory,’ Tauriel replied. ‘A part of the history of the high elves stretching back to the days when the world was young; a tale of the love that blossomed between an elf maiden and a mortal man, and the great quest they embarked upon together.’ 

She paused, meeting Kili’s gaze. Ithilrian held her breath. She saw a flicker of _something_ pass between them; something that Ithilrian had come to recognize. _Oh no,_ her inner thought whispered. _Not again. Not them as well._

‘I’ve never heard of it,’ piped up Ori, rummaging in a deep pocket for his journal. ‘Can you tell us some of it?’ he added shyly, fumbling with his pen. ‘I’m interested in history, and tales of all kinds. I’d like to make notes.’

‘I…’ Tauriel seemed taken aback by the request. ‘It is very long. And surely, I am not the one best suited to tell it,’ she replied slowly, glancing up at Ithilrian. ‘I am a simple sylvan elf. You are of the Noldor, are you not? It is your people the tale speaks of.’ 

‘Miss Ithil?’ Ori looked up at her beseechingly. ‘If it’s really that long, you could just give us the gist of it. It’s been ages since we’ve heard a good story.’ He sighed. ‘It’s just a shame we’ve no campfire to sit around,’ he added wistfully. ‘I love hearing tales by firelight.’ 

‘We can light a fire, surely?’ said Kili, grinning delightedly. ‘Come on, let’s get a blaze started!’ 

‘Wait!’ snapped Tauriel, as Kili grabbed the nearest chair. ‘You can’t just… destroy the furniture on a whim like that!’ 

‘Oh, they can,’ interjected Bilbo morosely. ‘Just you wait. If you’d seen what they did to my mother’s glory box, you’d be horrified.’ 

‘What?’ Fili piped up indignantly. ‘Don’t be like that, Bilbo! We cleaned up everything afterwards!’ 

‘Yes, right after you trod mud into my carpets, pillaged my pantry, tossed my mother’s fine china around like lunatics, and all but destroyed the plumbing in my bathroom…’ Bilbo began ticking off the various offences on his fingers, and Ithilrian dissolved into laughter once more at the bewildered expression Tauriel’s face. 

‘Come along,’ she chuckled. ‘Surely we may find fuel enough to set a small fire, without the need to destroy more furniture?’ 

‘More?’ blustered Dori. ‘We haven’t destroyed any yet!’ 

‘Oh? Don’t think I didn’t see what happened in Rivendell,’ replied Ithilrian, with mock sternness. ‘I saw you lot making a fire from all those beautiful ancient chairs that _just so happened_ to break, hmm?’ 

‘Ah,’ muttered Bofur, shifting uncomfortably. ‘There you might have a point, lass.’ 

‘I… shall fetch you some firewood,’ said Tauriel uncertainly, turning on her heel and vanishing. She returned swiftly, her arms piled high with logs, and the dwarves set about starting the fire with gusto. 

‘Stay,’ Ithilrian heard Kili say, watching as he placed a hand on the wood elf’s forearm as she made to leave. ‘Come on. It’ll be okay, I promise. Please?’ 

Ithilrian shot Thorin a questioning look, indicating the couple standing by the door. ‘What think you?’ she murmured softly, coming to stand beside him. 

‘About the elf?’ Thorin replied. ‘I think, Silver Lady, that my nephew is smitten with her. And it surprises me beyond belief.’ 

‘What I meant was, should she stay?’ Ithilrian smiled, allowing one hand to rest lightly on Thorin’s shoulder, reveling in his sturdy presence beside her. ‘However, I believe your assumption is correct. And if I am right, then it is not entirely one-sided either.’ 

‘Really?’ Thorin glanced back at Kili, hesitating and shaking his head. ‘The world appears to have gone mad this day,’ he muttered into his beard. ‘Very well. If she wishes to remain for now, I will not object.’ 

‘Good.’ Ithilrian smiled, waiting to catch Kili’s eye. _Perhaps it is madness,_ she thought. _Perhaps I am falling further and further into it with every breath._ She allowed her eyes to drift back towards Thorin, fighting the urge to run gentle fingers through his mane of raven-dark hair, to brush her thumb over the strong line of his cheekbone. _If this is madness, then I welcome it with open arms,_ she thought fiercely. _Let it take me. Let me drown in it. Let me close my eyes and never wake up; for he is the stuff that dreams are made of._

She shook herself, glancing back up and catching Kili’s eye. She nodded invitingly when the young dwarf shot her a pleading look, indicating that Tauriel was welcome to sit with the company. 

‘Thanks, Auntie,’ whispered Kili, as he came trotting up to her side. ‘I like calling you that,’ he added, grinning shyly. ‘I’ve never had an aunt before.’ 

Ithilrian smiled gently at the young prince. ‘Well, never before have I acted as aunt to a pair of mischievous young dwarves,’ she replied fondly. ‘But perhaps together, was shall be able to muddle through.’

‘Come on!’ called Nori, interrupting. ‘Fire’s all set. Just need our storyteller here. Quick now, or Mister Dwalin will begin regaling us with his old warg-hunting stories again. You know, the ones he’d already told a thousand times over.’ The nimble thief ducked the friendly blow that Dwalin aimed at him with consummate ease. 

‘Very well,’ replied Ithilrian, walking swiftly towards the circle of firelight. It seemed cozier somehow; making the high, arching hall seem a place of greater comfort, lit by the warming glow of the crackling blaze. 

‘I’ve got my journal ready,’ said Ori shyly. ‘What did you say it was called?’ 

‘It is known by several names,’ replied Ithilrian. ‘In verse form it is known as the Lay of Leithian. Otherwise, it is called the Quest for the Silmaril, or sometimes simply the tale of Beren and Lúthien.’ 

‘It tells of a quest?’ Thorin asked, shifting to one side, offering her the place at his side. 

‘Yes.’ Ithilrian nodded. ‘But there are no dragons or mountains in this one,’ she added with a laugh. She settled herself cross-legged on the floor beside Thorin, shooting him a shy smile before speaking. ‘It happened long ago, in the first age of this world,’ she began softly. ‘It tells of the love between Beren, son of Barahir, who was a great king amongst mortal men; and Lúthien Tinúviel, daughter of Thingol, King of the elves of Middle Earth. It is said that she was the fairest maiden who ever lived.’ She paused, rearranging her thoughts; for the full tale was a long one, and the hour was already late. 

‘What did she look like?’ asked Kili. ‘What?’ he added, when Ori shushed him. ‘It’s a fair enough question!’

Ithilrian chuckled. ‘I suppose it is. The tales say that her hair was dark as the shadows of twilight, but that her eyes were grey as the starlit evening; and that the glory of her loveliness was akin to the light upon the leaves, the voice of the clear waters, and the stars above the mists of the world.’ 

‘That’s so lovely,’ sighed Ori, pen scribbling frantically. 

‘But not very informative,’ replied Kili, scowling. Ithilrian had to bite back a laugh at the outraged expression on Ori’s face. 

‘Informative or not, that is the story,’ she said. ‘May I continue?’ 

‘Please do,’ rumbled Thorin, shooting a warning look at his nephew. 

Ithilrian smiled, allowing her eyes to linger on Thorin, drinking in the beauty of his burnished skin and raven-dark hair in the flickering firelight. ‘It was during the time of the Great Enemy,’ she continued softly. ‘Morgoth was his name; and he waged war on the peoples of Arda with a ceaseless bitterness. It was during one of these great battles that Beren’s father and people were slain; and their land of Dorthonion was lost to rampaging orcs. Beren alone survived the massacre. Forced to flee from his father’s lands, he passed in exile over the Mountains of Terror and so came into the hidden kingdom of Doriath, realm of King Thingol and Melian, his queen, who was one of the Maia.’ 

‘Why was it called the hidden kingdom?’ asked Ori, pausing in his note taking. 

‘Because there was a great enchantment over it,’ replied Ithilrian. ‘Melian used her power to cast a spell of secrecy over their lands so as to protect it, and their people, from the servants of Morgoth.’

‘That… makes sense,’ nodded Ori, jotting down a note. 

‘It can’t have been a very good spell,’ huffed Dori, ‘if some human king-in-exile was able to just wander in by accident.’ 

Ithilrian laughed. ‘You make a salient point. However, into Doriath he came. In the Lay of Leithian it is told that when Beren came he was stumbling, grey and bowed as with many years of woe, so great had been his torment on the road, and the pain from the loss of his people.’ She shifted slightly, glancing sideways at Thorin. He was watching her intently with eyes that glimmered like clouded sapphires in the firelight. _I wonder what he will make of all this,_ her inner thought whispered. _After all, I am using a piece of ancient elven history to justify my love for him to the rest of my woodland kin._ For in the shadows, unnoticed by the dwarves, Ithilrian had spotted several slender shapes standing or sitting silently. The wood elves were gathering to hear the tale. 

‘What happened next?’ asked Ori, leaning forwards eagerly. 

Ithilrian smiled, taking up the story once more. ‘It is said that he was wandering, lost in the woods of Neldoreth; and there it was that he first saw Lúthien, daughter of Thingol, singing and dancing beneath the light of a silver moon, beside the enchanted river Esgalduin. Such was the beauty of her voice that he named her Tinúviel, which means Nightingale in the common tongue. At the sight of her, the memory of his pain departed him, and he fell in love like one enchanted. But even as his weary feet stumbled towards her, she vanished from his sight.’ 

‘Vanished?’ asked Bilbo. ‘As in, just disappeared?’ 

‘Yes,’ nodded Ithilrian. ‘And Beren was struck with despair at her parting. Long he wandered the woods alone, searching for her, weary and sick at heart.’

‘Did he find her, then?’ asked Kili eagerly. 

‘Of course he did,’ chided Fili. ‘Else, there wouldn’t be a story, would there?’ 

‘He found her,’ affirmed Ithilrian. ‘Long had he loved her from afar,’ she added softly. ‘When he saw her again the following spring, enchantment healed his weary feet; and he ran to her, calling her name aloud.’ She sighed. ‘It is a beautiful moment in the original Lay,’ she muttered. ‘I fear I am doing this tale no justice.’ 

‘I disagree.’ Tauriel spoke up, her green eyes shining. ‘You tell it better than my mentors did. Despite the interruptions,’ she added, glancing at Kili with eyes that danced with hidden laughter. 

Ithilrian smiled. ‘Thank you,’ she replied softly. ‘But I believe I shall revert to the original verse to tell of their meeting, for no words of mine may do it justice.’ She paused, sighing and gazing into the fire as she recited the lines she had long since memorized, lowering her voice to a gentle sing-song cadence. 

_‘Again she fled, but swift he came,_  
_Tinúviel! Tinúviel!_  
_He called her by her elvish name_ ;  
_And there she halted, listening._  
_One moment stood she, and a spell_  
_His voice laid on her: Beren came,_  
_And doom fell on Tinúviel_  
_That in his arms lay glistening._

_As Beren looked into her eyes_  
_Within the shadows of her hair,_  
_The trembling starlight of the skies_  
_He saw there mirrored shimmering._  
_Tinúviel the elven-fair,_  
_Immortal maiden elven-wise,_  
_About him cast her shadowy hair_  
_And arms like silver glimmering.’_

She halted as her voice caught painfully in her throat. She could not bring herself to glance to her left, where the warm weight of Thorin had shifted slightly, pressing against her side. She felt, rather than saw, the gentle hand he placed upon hers, twining their fingers together and squeezing lightly. Her throat was momentarily blocked with tears. _And doom fell on Tinúviel,_ her thoughts repeated soberly. _Just as doom has fallen upon me: upon any elf rash enough to love a mortal. Foolish creature that I am, to tie myself to him in such a fashion: to love someone that death can touch._

‘That’s so lovely,’ nodded Bilbo encouragingly. ‘You know, I think I remember that bit from Rivendell, when we sat in the Hall of Fire. They were singing most of it in elvish, though.’ 

‘You’ve already heard it?’ asked Ori. ‘So you know what happens?’ 

‘Um, not really,’ Bilbo confessed. ‘As I said, a lot of it was in elvish. I can manage a few words of sindarin, but not enough to understand their poetry.’ 

‘Wait,’ said Kili, frowning. ‘What did that mean, doom fell on her? What doom?’ 

Ithilrian swallowed hard. _Trust Kili to pick up on the most awkward point,_ her inner thought grumbled. ‘It means that her fate became intertwined with that placed upon Beren,’ she replied delicately. 

‘What fate was that?’ asked Fili. 

‘To reclaim one of the lost Silmarils, the greatest and brightest of all the jewels in Arda,’ replied Ithilrian. ‘For when Lúthien took Beren before her father and confessed their love, the King was enraged. So he set Beren what he thought would be an impossible task: to steal a Silmaril from the Iron Crown of Morgoth, to be the bride-price of Lúthien.’

‘And did he manage it?’ asked Ori. 

‘Yes,’ she replied. ‘Aided by Lúthien, and Huan as well, the Hound of the Valar. Through many perils they passed, even through the dungeons of Sauron himself, who at the time was merely a servant of the Great Enemy; until they came at last to the fortress of Angbad, and stood before Morgoth’s throne. Once there, Lúthien sang a song of great beauty and power, weaving a magical sleep around the entire fortress, so that even Morgoth himself fell into an enchanted slumber; thus allowing Beren to cut one of the Silmarils from his iron crown.’ 

‘Hmpf,’ snorted Oin loudly. ‘Nice as that sounds, I doubt that’d work on Smaug. Not unless you’ve got a few more tricks up your sleeve than you’ve been letting on, Miss Ithilrian?’ 

The grey elf chuckled. ‘I’m afraid not, my friend. But still, it did not work perfectly. Beren became too bold, you see. He tried to cut a second jewel from the crown; and his knife broke into shards, one of which sliced the sleeping Morgoth’s cheek, awakening him. They were forced to flee, until they were halted by the great wolf Carcharoth, who was fed upon living flesh by the hand of Morgoth himself, until he grew monstrous in size and power.’

‘Eurgh,’ shuddered Fili. ‘That sounds awful.’ 

‘And _that_ sounds like an understatement,’ added Bilbo, wrinkling his nose in revulsion. ‘Disgusting is more the word that comes to mind.’ 

Ithilrian nodded. ‘We are fortunate indeed that his kind no longer roam the earth,’ she replied. ‘For within him burned an unholy spirit, and his fangs were laced with poison.’ She shuddered. ‘When the wolf sprang upon them, Beren raised his hand: the one that held the Silmaril,’ she added. ‘He thought to frighten the beast with the holy light of the jewel, you see. But Carcharoth, far from being daunted, simply bit his hand off at the wrist.’ 

‘What?’ cried Ori, dropping his pen. ‘His whole hand?’ 

‘Yes,’ nodded Ithilrian. ‘And with it, the Silmaril. But the hallowed jewel burned the beast’s unclean flesh; and he fled, howling into the wastes.’ 

‘And what happened then?’ asked Kili eagerly. ‘Did Beren get a new hand?’ 

Ithilrian paused, looking at him in bewilderment. ‘No,’ she replied. ‘He did not. His injury was dire, for the poison flowed strongly within him; but through her arts Lúthien was able to heal him, drawing the poison from the wound and calling back his spirit from the shadow realm, where he had wandered long in anguish, along the dark path which runs between life and death.’

‘So… she saved him? It has a happy ending, this story?’ said Bilbo tentatively. ‘That’s funny. Most of the old elven tales I know are sad.’ 

‘Did I say the tale was ended?’ replied Ithilrian mildly. 

‘Oh dear,’ muttered Fili. ‘Why do I think that Bilbo won’t get his happy ending after all?’ 

‘Because you have a brain,’ Ithilrian replied, smiling. ‘And because of the ruin and desolation that Carcharoth caused afterwards. The pain of the jewel inside him drove the wolf mad; but also gave him a terrible power. He ran ravening through the North, and was able to burst through the enchantment that Melian had laid upon Doriath. There the elves of old hunted him down; and with them went Beren and his faithful hound Huan.’

Bofur shuddered. ‘They actually went looking for the monster?’ he asked. 

‘Yes,’ nodded Ithilrian. ‘He needed to be destroyed; and besides, Beren was still determined to retrieve the Silmaril from the wolf’s corpse, to win Lúthien as his bride.’

‘Ohhh,’ nodded Bofur, smiling. ‘I forgot about that. He wouldn’t want to fail his lady love, would he?’ he grinned, winking at Bilbo, who blushed crimson. Thorin gave an approving rumble. 

‘Faint heart never won fair lady,’ he murmured quietly. ‘I have had cause to remember this sentiment over recent days.’ 

Ithilrian laughed softly. ‘Faint heart would perhaps have served him better,’ she murmured sadly. ‘For in that last great fight, Huan the hound eventually triumphed, locking jaws with Carcharoth and bringing down the dread wolf. But in that final battle both he and Beren were wounded mortally. Huan died almost immediately, but Beren lingered; just long enough to see Lúthien again. For long enough to say goodbye.’ She paused, and smiled sadly. ‘He died in her arms,’ she whispered softly. ‘And her sorrow was unmatched, and her tears fell unnumbered, bright and cold beneath the light of the stars; for her heart was broken, and could not be mended.’ 

‘You’re right. That is sad.’ Kili scowled. ‘Why do all elven tales have unhappy endings?’ 

Ithilrian shrugged, her expression stormy, her thoughts filled with the echoes of ancient grief. ‘The world is wide, and filled with many great sorrows and perils. Why should our stories be dissimilar?’ She hesitated, feeling Thorin squeeze her hand once again. ‘But there is also joy, and love, and hope to be found as well,’ she added, feeling the warmth of his touch lighting a gentle fire within her. ‘It is far too easy to forget that sometimes.’ 

‘Aye,’ nodded Bofur. ‘Never give up, that’s our motto. Or it would be, if we had one. No matter how many times life kicks you in the shins, we always get back up again.’ 

Ithilrian dipped her head in acknowledgement of his words, noticing the dwarves around her nodding in agreement, beginning to chatter amongst themselves once more, now that the tale was ended. A great warmth welled up within her, a love and respect for the dwarves that she had come to call friends. _How many sorrows have they endured?_ She wondered. _A dragon invades their home, kills their families, friends, loved ones… and they are left wandering the wastes in exile. Is it any wonder they are here? That they want to go home again?_ A fierce determination swept through her anew, and she turned to speak with Thorin. ‘You _will_ get Erebor back,’ she murmured, lowering her voice so that only he could hear her. ‘We will do it, Thorin. I swear it. For too long have the sons of Durin endured more grief than joy in this world.’ 

‘When you speak to me like that…’ Thorin shook his head slowly, his voice hoarse with emotion, looking at her with wonderment in his eyes. She allowed herself to fall slowly, to lose herself in the simple beauty of his gaze. _As blue as the sky on a summer’s eve,_ she thought hazily. _Dark as midnight, but bright as starlight: bluer than blue, and tempestuous as a storm-wracked sea._ A shudder of desire rippled through her. Tentatively she leaned towards him, pulled by the sheer intensity of his gaze. Dimly she was aware of his arm around her, pulling her close, as with the softness of a breath their lips met. She trembled beneath his touch as she allowed him to take her mouth, gently at first, but then with a growing passion that sent rivers of molten fire flooding into the core of her being. She ignored the ribald laughter and whoops coming from the rest of the Company, focusing all her attention on the dwarf that sat before her: the dwarf that she had poured her very soul into, all those years ago. His lips were soft, moving against hers with a gentle pressure. She shivered with delight at the rough silk of his beard against her skin, joying in with warmth of his mouth and the questing movement of his tongue, as he kissed her so deeply that she felt waves of pleasure washing over her, as though she were falling into the depths of the Great Sea, with the sunlit waters rolling over and over her in relentless rhythm; until, with great effort of will, they pulled apart once more.

_‘Gin melathon an-uir,’_ she murmured, starry-eyed from the intensity of his kisses. ‘I am sorry,’ she added, smiling at his perplexed expression. ‘My heart is so full that I cannot seem to find the words I wish to speak, save for in my own tongue.’ 

Thorin chuckled, seeming to shake his head dazedly. ‘Never apologize for speaking your own language,’ he replied. ‘For if your full heart means that I may kiss you like that again, then I will endure anything.’ 

Ithilrian chuckled. ‘There is much fire between us,’ she murmured, leaning forward to speak quietly in his ear. ‘I fear that if you kiss me in such a manner again, I shall be unable to control myself; and this is neither the time nor the place for our final bonding.’ 

‘I know.’ Thorin replied softly, his voice shaking slightly. ‘And I have said that I will wait. But it is difficult.’ He shifted slightly, shaking his head once more. ‘Have you any idea what you do to me?’ he murmured wonderingly. 

‘I could ask you the same thing,’ she replied, smiling gently and taking a deep, calming breath. She reached out tenderly to run her fingers through his hair, laughing quietly as he reached shyly to do the same. His fingers felt warm and gentle as he combed them lightly through the strands that fell loosely around her face; until he ran his fingers over one of her ears, caressing the dainty point tenderly. A tiny high-pitched whine forced itself from between her lips, and she jerked away swiftly. 

‘What?’ asked Thorin, his expression clouding anxiously. ‘What was that? Did I hurt you?’ 

‘No,’ she breathed, trying to ignore the spike of pleasure that his touch had sent spiraling through her, struggling to clear her mind from the desire that was beginning to cloud her thoughts, hot and insistent and demanding. _Now,_ it seemed to be saying. 

‘No,’ she said again, more to herself than to Thorin, attempting to moderate her breathing. ‘My apologies,’ she added, smiling ruefully at the dwarf before her. ‘I didn’t mean to…’ she shook her head again. ‘Your touch is… potent,’ she added simply. 

‘Oh.’ Thorin nodded slowly. _‘Oh,’_ he said again, as Ithilrian watched the realization of what she meant unfolding in his eyes. He pulled his hand back, swallowing hard. He appeared to be fighting the same desire that she was, if his trembling fingers, quickening breath, and the darkening intensity of his midnight gaze was anything to go by. 

‘In that case,’ he replied, his voice a low, husky rasp, ‘you will not object if I go find some cold water to dunk my head into. Else I shall be able to think of nothing but… _that,_ until the dawn breaks.’ 

Ithilrian laughed softly. ‘Go ahead, my heart.’ She smiled, shaking her head as Thorin stood up awkwardly, gathering his coat around him as he stalked off towards the end of the hall. She watched him depart, feeling gentle affection swelling within her, slowly replacing the urgent desire that had been rising a moment ago. His vacant spot was claimed by Dwalin, who settled himself at her side with a grunt.

‘He’s got a good heart,’ the scarred dwarf said quietly, his eyes fixed upon Thorin. ‘I’ve known him since he was a lad. Since his granddad was King Under the Mountain, and Thorin was naught but a wee toddler in an oversized doublet, struggling to lift a blade twice his own weight.’ 

Ithilrian smiled, turning to look questioningly at the larger dwarf. ‘You were raised together?’ 

‘Aye.’ Dwalin nodded. ‘As close as a prince and his companion might be, anyhow. The line of Fundin has always been close to the Durins, acting as advisors, councilors, captains… anything called for.’ He sighed. ‘I still remember the days of Erebor. Thorin often used to follow his father around with a stern face and proud walk, trying to act like the prince everybody saw him as; instead of simply… himself.’ He shook his head ruefully. ‘The burden of his duty has always weighed heavily on him,’ he added. ‘But always, he accepted it with grace. Even when Erebor was lost, and Thror was slain; and Thorin was forced to become our youngest King in generations.’ 

‘I can well believe it,’ replied Ithilrian softly. ‘I hold him in the highest possible esteem, Dwalin. You must know this.’ 

‘I do,’ replied the dwarf, a faintly affectionate twinkle lurking deep in his eyes. ‘I can see it plain as day. He looks at you as though you’re the most precious thing in the world. You, on the other hand, watch him like a mother bear guarding her cub: all fierce love and devotion. You’re a good match, for all your differences.’ 

‘You think so?’ asked Ithilrian, surprised. ‘You are highly observant, Dwalin. I had no idea you had noticed so much.’

Dwalin chuckled roughly. ‘One does not become the King’s Captain by being deaf, blind and dumb, m’lady,’ he replied. ‘I see much that others don’t. But in this case, only a blind man or a fool could miss the affection between you two. I’ve not seen him smile so much in years. So I ask ye to take care of him; for he is both my king and friend.’

‘I shall,’ Ithilrian nodded solemnly. ‘I swear it, _mellon nîn._ I would give my life to see him safe. You know this.’ 

‘I know.’ Dwalin nodded gently. ‘As would we both, lass. But it does m’heart good to hear you say it.’ He paused, chuckling at the sight of Thorin coming back, his braids dripping wet. ‘And now I shall leave you,’ he added gruffly, rising quickly. 

‘You need not go,’ said Thorin, stepping up beside his old friend. ‘Remain with us if you wish, Dwalin.’ 

The tattooed dwarf chuckled. ‘I need my beauty sleep, Thorin. As do you, I might add. It’s getting late; or had ye not noticed?’ He nodded towards the entrance, where a group of elves were placing several large piles of blankets and pillows, ready for the dwarves’ use. ‘I think that’s someone’s idea of a subtle hint,’ he added.

‘Well, I for one will sleep soundly tonight,’ replied Ithilrian, rising to her feet and stretching gracefully. ‘My heart is lighter than it has been in centuries. Even if we must continue on our road tomorrow, I intend to enjoy several straight hours of peaceful, uninterrupted slumber before the dawn.’

~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew! These chapters are getting tough to write now! I feel like I've spent so long trying to get to this point, I want to make sure everything is right, now that my pair of darlings have _finally_ got together. So my apologies if they seem to be taking slightly longer. It's not through lack of attention on my part, I promise! 
> 
> Oh, and as some of you may have noticed, I have shamelessly plundered my copy of The Silmarillion for the latter part of this chapter. I hope it's not too lore-y and boring. 
> 
>  
> 
> Elvish Translations:
> 
> Veleth nîn = my love  
> Ammë = mother  
> Mellon nîn = my friend  
> Gin melathon an-uir = I will love you for eternity


	36. Signs and Portents

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Ithilrian has something like a bad dream; and Thorin makes a small confession.

The hall was quiet, and the fire had almost burnt itself out. Save for the soft snuffling and occasional grunts and snores coming from twelve sleeping dwarves, one elf, and one small hobbit, silence reigned. Of the Company, only Thorin was still awake, seated cross-legged beside the glowing embers and puffing contentedly on his small clay pipe. Beside him, the others were all sprawled haphazardly around the hall. Even Ithilrian had finally settled down, after ridding herself of the blue gown and begging a simple tunic and leggings from a bewildered Tauriel. The silver elf appeared to be deep in sleep, tucked happily into the narrow space between Kili and Fili. 

Thorin smiled to himself, remembering the indignant expressions on his nephew’s faces when he’d tried to settle his bedroll beside hers. 

‘It’s only been a _day,_ uncle,’ Fili had hissed at him, seeming scandalized. ‘Not even that! A matter of hours!’

‘It’s been ten years, nephew,’ he had growled in return, lowering his brows and glaring. But Fili had been having none of it, protesting that it was now his and Kili’s duty to defend their newly adopted auntie’s honour. Ithilrian, meanwhile, had been no help at all, seemingly lost in a fit of giggles at the young prince’s antics, a spare blanket wrapped over her shoulders like a cloak. 

‘We shall have time together later,’ she had murmured to him softly, her lips brushing against the shell of his ear, her breath warm upon his neck. ‘Patience, my love.’ Her words had sent a gentle shiver of anticipation through him. 

‘Very well,’ he’d replied, smiling before taking up a sitting position at the fire; and there he had remained, while one by one the Company fell into slumber all around him. Contented snores filled the hall. Even Bilbo was curled up fast asleep, huddled between Bofur and Ori, his breathing deep and even. He glanced back over to Ithilrian, watching the tilt and curve of her body as it rose and fell beneath the blankets, listening with a smile to the sound of her gentle breathing. Her face looked calm and serene, as smooth and impassive as ever it had been; but her eyes were moving beneath closed lids, trembling slightly, and roving from side to side as whatever dream she was experiencing wrapped itself more tightly around her. 

_I wonder what it is,_ Thorin thought idly, watching her with interest. _I wonder what she is seeing, what she’s dreaming. Would she tell me, if I asked?_

~

‘Ithilrian…’

The low, sonorous voice of the Lady Galadriel was weaving its way once more into Ithilrian’s sleeping mind, like the gentle tolling of brazen bells. She felt herself pulled out of a dreamless slumber, her inner thought spiraling up into the night, to hover among the stars that winked and flickered in the cool calm of the autumnal night. 

_‘Mae g’ovannen, ammë,’_ she whispered, answering the summons with a smile. ‘I wondered when I’d next be seeing you.’ 

‘Greetings, daughter,’ replied Galadriel warmly. ‘How do you fare?’ 

‘I am well,’ Ithilrian replied, unable to contain the joy that bubbled up from deep within her soul, spilling over in a wave of laughter that fell like gentle rain all around them. ‘I am more than well, _ammë._ I feel whole again.’ 

Galadriel nodded approvingly, her azure eyes glowing with warmth and affection. ‘Then you have strength enough to travel in thought to Lothlórien again?’ she asked, offering one slender hand. ‘Come, child. Now that your heart is healed, I would have you look upon your home once more, before the next stage of your journey begins. It may prove to be of value.’ 

Ithilrian hesitated. ‘I do not have anywhere near your power,’ she replied dubiously. ‘I doubt I will be able to…’ she trailed off, looking more closely at the hand that her mother was offering, realizing what she was implying with a sharp intake of breath. For there, glimmering like a silver star upon her mother’s slender finger, sat Nenya, fairest of the three elven rings.

‘Take my hand,’ instructed Galadriel, just as she had when Ithilrian had been naught but a tiny elfling, learning lore at her mother’s skirts. ‘Allow your mind to wander, so your spirit may draw a little from its power.’ 

Ithilrian nodded. She reached out and wrapped her fingers around Galadriel’s. Her mother’s had felt strong and warm. She could feel the ring beneath her palm, the _mithril_ band smooth and cold to the touch, the stone pulsing with hidden power. She focused on the tingle of magic against her skin, allowing herself to draw tentatively upon the ancient elven power that began to crackle headily through her veins. 

That’s it,’ murmured her mother approvingly. ‘You learn as swiftly as always, my dear child.’ Hand in hand, Ithilrian felt herself lifting up, her thoughts guided by the fresh power that was thrumming through her spirit, feeling as though she was passing through a pale, dense fog: until suddenly the mists appeared to clear, and she was faced with an achingly familiar sight. 

‘Caras Galadhon,’ she murmured wonderingly. ‘The heart of Lórien.’ 

She found herself standing in a small glade, surrounded by familiar trees, whose smooth trunks and slender leaves were gleaming faintly in the light of the distant stars. She breathed in deeply, reveling in the sweet scent of her homeland, wishing for a moment that she could be there in more than just spirit; before turning to gaze questioningly at her mother. 

‘Why have you brought me here?’ she asked. ‘Why this place?’ For the small hollow they had appeared in was not somewhere Ithilrian had been allowed to frequent regularly. This was where the Lady Galadriel kept her Mirror. 

‘Because I wish to help,’ replied her mother softly. ‘When you last trod the grasses of Cerin Amroth your spirit was torn, consumed by grief and guilt. Now, at last, you are whole again; healed by the love of the one you hold most dear.’ She smiled warmly, one affectionate hand upon Ithilrian’s shoulder.

‘Did you know that would happen?’ asked Ithilrian slowly. ‘You have the gift of foresight, _ammë._ Did you know that Thorin would… that he had feelings for me too? That we would come together?’ 

Galadriel shook her head. ‘If I’d known, I’d have told you, in order to ease the burden of your heart,’ she replied simply. ‘But I hoped, child. And now it has come to pass. You are changed, Ithilrian; for good or ill, I cannot say. You have become bound to the fate that lies heavily upon Thorin Oakenshield; and as you are bound, my daughter, so are we all. The fate of the Elder Folk is becoming entwined with that of Aule’s Children. I do not know where our path now lies. So I offer you a gift; the only one I am able to give.’ She turned towards the low pedestal that sat in the center of the glade, carved in the fashion of a branching tree. Upon it stood a basin of silver, wide and shallow, and a large gleaming ewer. 

‘Will you look into the Mirror?’ the Lady of Lórien said quietly.

‘What will I see?’ Ithilrian asked tentatively. Never before had her mother offered such a thing. 

‘Even the wisest cannot tell,’ replied Galadriel, with a slow shake of her head. ‘It differs for all who cast their gaze upon the enchanted waters.’ She took up the ewer and filled the basin, right to the brim. ‘The Mirror shows many things,’ she added quietly. ‘Many things, and not all of them have yet come to pass. Some never will, if those who behold the visions go out of their way to prevent them. Remember this. It is choice that I offer you, Ithilrian. You may look, or not, as you wish. You may yet see something that will help you in your quest; or you may not. Prophecy can be a poor guide to the future. But it is the only gift I am able to give.’

‘Then I shall look,’ replied Ithilrian, swallowing hard and steeling her nerve. ‘Our path… Thorin’s path has become fraught with danger. Too many times he has come close to losing his life. If there is a chance that I can see something that will help… something that may save him…’ she stepped towards the gleaming pedestal. ‘Then I shall take it. I thank you for this gift, _ammë.’_

Galadriel inclined her head solemnly. ‘Then look into Mirror,’ she replied softly. ‘Open your heart; but do not touch the water.’ 

‘I won’t,’ Ithilrian nodded, smiling a little ruefully. ‘But like as not I’ll just see the moon, or the stars; something beautiful and distant that I cannot understand.’ 

‘Perhaps.’ Galadriel smiled, holding her daughter’s gaze steadily. Ithilrian nodded, placing a hand on either side of the basin, lowering her head to stare into the waters. The mirror was dark, reflecting nothing more magical than the darkened sky above. 

_Just the stars; just as I imagined,_ Ithilrian thought, feeling slightly disappointed. Then it was as if a veil had been drawn aside, and darkness fell over the mirror before it cleared. She saw bright sunshine rising over a desolate and rock-strewn landscape. The image changed swiftly, showing her bright flowers, leafy plants and a single great tree, all somehow flourishing among pillars of dark green rock. But before she could decipher what she was seeing, the light faded; and she caught a glimpse of Fili and Kili, lying with pale faces, asleep in a great cavern of gold-veined stone. Then she saw herself, sleeping on a bed in a darkened room. It came to her suddenly that she was searching, urgently seeking something she could not find; but what it was, she did not know. Like a dream, the vision shifted back again, and she saw a single snow-capped mountain peak, rising in great majesty and splendor over the surrounding land. _Erebor,_ she realized. _That must be the Lonely Mountain._ The dying sunlight gleamed like fire on the snow, darkening to the colour of blood as flames seemed to lick the mountainside, and darkness fell with a roaring wind, and a sound like a great hurricane. _Smaug!_ she thought in panic. _He’s awake – he’s coming for us!_ Coils of steam were rising from the Mirror as a belch of golden fire consumed the mountain; before the vision shifted and she saw Thorin, lying flat on his back upon frozen, rocky ground. Dark red stains were beginning to spread on the ice beneath him, and his dear face looked bloodied and battered, with an awful wound running over his forehead and cheek. His clear blue eyes were clouding, dimming, as his stuttering breaths ceased and his head lolled back, sightless eyes gazing up at a sky darkening with the promise of thunder… 

_‘No!’_

She screamed, tearing herself away: from the vision, from the Mirror, from her mother and Lothlórien as her spirit hurtled up into the night, following the invisible cord that bound her to her body. Her eyes – her _real_ eyes – slammed open as she awoke with a frantic, wordless cry, struggling to stand, to see through the darkness that engulfed her; until a warm, heavy weight descended, and strong, muscular arms wrapped firmly around her torso.

‘Thorin,’ she choked, his name a strangled sob on her lips as she pressed her head into the firmness of his shoulder, inhaling his familiar scent, her hands tugging at his hair and caressing his face: his beautiful, unbruised, and blessedly _alive_ face. 

‘Ithilrian,’ he murmured, his voice deep and rich and smoky as she pressed herself into him, taking comfort from his warmth, the firm weight of his body, and the steady beating of his heart. ‘It’s all right. It was only a dream.’ 

‘Thorin,’ she gasped again, his name the only word she could manage, as she closed her eyes and gritted her teeth, fighting the sobs that wracked her body. She closed her eyes; and even as she fought to clear her memory of the vision, Lady Galadriel’s voice continued to echo in her mind. 

‘Harden your heart, Ithilrian. You will need all your strength for the battle that is to come,’ came her mother’s final sonorous words. ‘Your choice is yet before you, just as Thorin still has a choice to make. He may rise above the height of all his fathers since the days of Durin himself; or fall into darkness, with all that is left of his kin.’ 

_‘May the blessed Lady Varda protect him,’_ Ithilrian muttered frantically in stumbling sindarin, still refusing to remove her head from the hollow of Thorin’s neck. _‘May the grace of the Valar protect us all.’_ She repeated the words over and over, trying to quench the panic that fluttered in her chest. His arms were still around her, his warm dense weight keeping her grounded: keeping her safe. _I cannot tell him what I just saw,_ she thought desperately to herself. _I cannot – what would he say?_ She was shivering. _He will not die,_ she thought fiercely, tightening her grip on Thorin’s arms. _Not like that. I don’t care what I have to do: I will save him from that fate._

~

Thorin was worried. 

When Ithilrian’s frantic cry had torn from her throat he was already on his feet, halfway towards her. He’d kept a watchful eye on her sleeping movements, becoming more and more concerned that she was in the grip of a nightmare; until she had screamed, and he had leapt the final distance like a cork propelled from a bottle. _Durin’s beard, the sound of that scream,_ he thought grimly. He hoped he never heard the like again. The pain and terror in Ithilrian’s voice – _his_ Ithilrian, his brave and fierce elven huntress – had been almost unbearable, as had the way she’d lurched forwards, trying to leap to her feet immediately upon waking, staring around wildly like one struck suddenly blind. He’d been able to tug her into his arms almost immediately after she woke, trusting that she’d know it was him: that she wouldn’t push him away. His assumption was correct. The way she’d simply melted into him, pushing her head into the crook of his neck and uttering his name in a strangled gasp triggered a surge of fierce, protective longing. 

‘Ithilrian,’ he murmured her name softly. ‘It’s all right. It was only a dream.’ He kept his arms around her, pressing his mouth to her hair in a tentative kiss. A torrent of frightened sindarin spilled from her lips, and she clutched at him as though he was the only solid being in a world full of ghosts. He murmured words of comfort and calm to her in quiet khuzdul, lowering his voice to a soothing rumble as he allowed her hands to tighten almost painfully around his shoulders. From the corner of his eye he noticed his nephews, still bleary-eyed with sleep, but with both hands wrapped firmly around their respective weapons, hovering protectively either side of the shivering elf. Behind them, it seemed that the entire Company had leapt to their feet, ready for a fight. 

‘Uncle?’ said Fili quietly. ‘Auntie Ithil?’ 

‘Back to sleep, all of you,’ he said gruffly over his shoulder. ‘Night terrors are something we’ve all had before. She doesn’t need everybody gawping at her.’ He kept one hand moving in slow, circular motions on her back, feeling her ragged breathing gradually subside. 

‘That’s true,’ nodded Fili, lowering his swords and craning his neck, trying to smile and catch Ithilrian’s eye. ‘Nothing to be afraid or ashamed of, right?’ 

‘Certainly not,’ sniffed Balin, stroking his beard contemplatively. ‘We’ve all had our fair share, believe me. Although I must say, m’lady Ithilrian, you did give us all quite a fright,’ he added, glancing sideways at Dwalin. The tattooed dwarf had been on his feet faster than any of them, Grasper and Keeper in his hands and a scowl on his face, ready to do battle. Even now, he still hadn’t lowered his axes.

‘Oh, put them away, brother,’ huffed Balin exasperatedly. ‘You’ll do yourself an injury if you’re not careful.’ 

‘The lady cried out,’ growled Dwalin defensively. ‘I know fear when I hear it. As our King’s betrothed, she’s got a right to our protection.’ 

‘Enough!’ Thorin snapped. Ithilrian still had not looked up, keeping her face buried against his shoulder.

‘Thank you,’ she mumbled, her voice slightly muffled from the way her head was pressed against Thorin’s tunic. ‘You are kind to say such things, my friends. But I am mortified to have caused concern. This… has never happened to me before.’ 

‘It is no trouble,’ replied Balin. ‘We’ve all been there, lass. But you seem to be in safe hands now. We’ll bid you goodnight.’ 

Thorin nodded his thanks, as one by one the Company went back to their allotted sleeping spots, settling back into slumber. He glanced around, wondering what to do. Ithilrian was showing no signs of relinquishing her hold any time soon. He was currently stooping, having dropped to one knee to pull her up from the tangle of blankets. Without any further ado he shifted his grip, keeping one arm firmly wrapped around her torso, and slipping the other beneath her tucked-up legs. He lifted her into his arms, blankets and all, before standing up and grunting with surprise. The elf weighed no more than a feather. 

_She’s so light,_ he realized, stepping swiftly towards the smoldering embers of their improvised campfire. _Fragile, like a songbird. How easy would it be for her to get hurt in battle? I could probably break her bones with one hand._ The idea sent a jolt of horror running through him as he deposited her carefully onto the polished floor. She finally relinquished her hold, her hands slipping from his broad shoulders as she pushed herself into a sitting position. He watched her reach towards the glowing embers, breathing on them gently, coaxing the fire back into life, adding all that remained of the wood. She jumped slightly as Thorin’s hands descended on her once more; but it was only to tuck the blanket firmly around her shoulders, and to press a small cup of honey wine into her hand. 

‘Drink this,’ he advised. ‘Sweet things are the best for shock.’ 

She nodded, raising it to her lips and taking a tentative sip, remaining silent all the while. 

‘Tell me what ails you,’ he said to her softly, once she had drunk it all. ‘Never before have I noticed you suffering from troubled sleep.’ He sat himself down on the floor as well, moving so they were sitting face to face. He reached out, taking both her hands in his and pressing them gently, enjoying the warmth of her skin against his own. She responded beautifully to his touch, sighing softly and leaning closer towards him. 

‘Please talk to me, Ithilrian,’ he asked tentatively. ‘Let me help. If we are to be together… bound, body and soul in the way you described before, then… you must let me help.’ He used one hand to smooth her rumpled braids, trailing his fingers through the gleaming silver strands. ‘Allow me to share your fears as well as your joys, _ghivashel,’_ he murmured. ‘Allow me the honor of tending to you: in safety and in danger; through darkness and into the light.’ 

She smiled wanly, still not quite meeting his eyes. ‘That sounded as if you were quoting something. Are those words, this sharing… part of the dwarven courtship?’ 

‘In a way,’ he replied quietly, his heart thrumming within him. He felt relieved that he’d managed to draw even a small smile from her. ‘I… should probably tell you, I’ve gone about this courtship all back to front,’ he admitted with a rueful smile. ‘I will explain later, if you wish. But for now…’ he shook his head, using the hand that had been smoothing her hair to caress her cheek lightly, tilting her chin towards him. ‘Why will you not look at me?’ he asked softly.

‘Because I am feeling horrendously embarrassed,’ she said flatly. 

‘Don’t be,’ replied Thorin firmly. ‘We’ve all done the same at one time or another. I’ve woken up screaming more times than I can count, especially after the Battle of Moria. So has Balin, and Dwalin too… all of them. You heard what Fili said. There is no shame in this. Nor in seeking comfort in another once you wake.’ 

‘Thank you,’ she replied softly. Thorin felt warmth surge through him as she looked up, finally meeting his gaze. Her grey eyes were stormy, and slightly reddened from where she’d been weeping; but a faint smile tugged at her lips, small and barely noticeable. But to Thorin’s eyes, it was as bright and warming as the sunrise. 

‘That has never happened to me before,’ she muttered. ‘Forgive my reticence, _veleth nîn._ I dislike making a spectacle of myself.’ 

‘What did you see?’ asked Thorin quietly. ‘Was it a bad dream?’

She appeared to hesitate for several moments, her grey eyes clouding as though in deep thought. ‘Yes,’ she said eventually. ‘You could call it such. We elder folk do not dream in the same way you do; but that is what I wish to call it, for now. A very bad dream indeed.’ She shivered. ‘You will not object if I… do not divulge its full contents?’ she added. ‘Suffice to say, I was faced once again with the loss of that which I hold most dear in this world; and my heart could not bear it.’ 

Thorin frowned. ‘You were remembering your sister’s passing?’ he asked softly. 

‘No,’ she shook her head slightly, holding his gaze. ‘That old wound is beginning to heal. It was your loss I feared, _a'maelamin.’_

Thorin squeezed her hand tightly. ‘I am right here beside you,’ he murmured softly. ‘And I am not going anywhere. Elf or dwarf, man or hobbit: nightmares come to us all. There is no controlling them. But remember: a dream is just a dream.’ 

‘I shall.’ Ithilrian smiled again, and it was warmer this time, but tinged with a familiar fierce determination. ‘It shall not come to pass,’ she said softly, seeming to talk more to herself than to him. ‘It will not.’ She turned her gaze back onto him, her expression softening. ‘I still feel very foolish,’ she added. ‘But thank you for coming to me as quickly as you did.’ 

‘There’s no need to thank me for that,’ replied Thorin swiftly. ‘It’s my duty now to care for you… to protect...’ he hesitated. ‘Not that it wasn’t before,’ he muttered awkwardly. ‘But before, that was just as a leader. Now we’re…’ 

‘Yes.’ Ithilrian nodded slowly, her smile widening. ‘I was not so terrified that I missed what passed between you and Dwalin,’ she added softly, with a knowing gleam in her eye. ‘He called me your betrothed, Thorin.’ She arched one eyebrow questioningly. ‘Should I have already known this? Is this something I have missed through my ignorance of your customs? Or is this what you meant when you told me you were courting backwards?’ 

‘Ah,’ muttered Thorin, shifting uncomfortably. ‘Yes. I had thought to… I probably should have told you earlier. But now seems as good a time as any.’ 

‘I see.’ Ithilrian placed a hand over her mouth, laughing softly. Despite his embarrassment, Thorin felt his smile widening, and his heart soaring at the sound. 

‘Don’t concern yourself,’ she told him fondly. ‘I don’t mind a backwards courtship. So before you get in a fluster, I wish to add that you’ve done nothing incorrectly in elven terms. I am content. At least…’ she shrugged. ‘Admittedly, we have taken a little longer than is usual,’ she added bashfully. ‘And we are not quite fully bound even yet. But there will be a time for that.’ 

‘I see.’ Thorin nodded, drawing in a deep breath. ‘Then… perhaps you will not mind when I tell you that we have, in fact, been technically betrothed for a little while now. In the eyes of my people, anyway.’

‘A little while?’ She smiled warily. ‘Thorin, what does _a little while_ mean?’ 

He cleared his throat awkwardly. ‘Since we left Beorn’s hall,’ he muttered reluctantly. 

‘Since…? Thorin, I did not even know you felt anything beyond friendship for me until earlier this evening!’ replied Ithilrian, clearly bewildered. ‘That was days ago! How…?’ her voice trailed off, and her eyes narrowed. ‘The bead,’ she added, realization dawning on her face. ‘The beautiful gift that you gave me. That’s it, isn’t it?’ 

‘It is,’ he replied simply, feeling as though a weight lifted from his shoulders as he spoke. Finally, he was able to tell her: to speak the words that had been in his heart, but that he’d been unable to say in that great cold hall, out in the wilderness. She was looking at him with such fond affection that he did not even hesitate.

‘Traditionally, the offering of a bead such as that is the question. Whether you choose to accept it or not is the answer.’ He paused. ‘I love you,’ he added softly. ‘I have loved you for ten long, lonely years; and I will love you for another ten thousand years more. You gave me hope, when I had none; you showed me a light, when all I saw ahead was darkness. All that I am, and all that I will ever be, is yours; if you will have me.’ His hand shook and his voice trembled as he reached out to twine their fingers together. ‘Ithilrian Tinnulenath, my fair lady of the Twilight Star, will you marry me? Will you consent to become my wife?’ 

‘Yes,’ she replied immediately, her tone mellow, her eyes filled with a gentle tenderness so bright and warm that he thought his heart might break. ‘Yes, Thorin, my love. My heart, my soul: both are already in your keeping. Nothing would give me greater joy than to be bound in the fashion of your people, as well as mine.’ She paused, smiling widely, loosing a low, delighted laugh. ‘This is what you had planned to say? That evening at Beorn’s hall, while the others were sleeping?’ 

‘Yes. Well, no. Not all of that,’ Thorin confessed, feeling his cheeks flush with delight, a grin of pure happiness spreading from ear to ear. ‘I simply wanted to offer myself… to find out whether you could come to care for a tongue-tied dwarf with, apparently, more battle scars than sense; for I could not see what was directly under my nose the entire time.’ He laughed along with Ithilrian, delighting in the way his low baritone rumble merged beautifully with her light, silvery chuckle, drifting through the elven halls in joyous harmony. 

‘At least it’s a pretty nose,’ murmured Ithilrian, between chuckles. She leaned forwards to brush her own nose against his: a swift, darting caress. Her touch sent a shiver of longing through him. But even as he reached for her in delight, wanting to kiss the very breath out of her, he remembered how he’d promised not to rush; to withhold his physical affections until she was ready. 

‘Ithilrian,’ he murmured, his heart pounding in his chest. ‘May I kiss you, my dear heart? My betrothed?’ 

She did not even deign to reply. He caught her slight weight as she leaned towards him, tilting her head a little before their mouths met. He pushed forwards, his lips parting hungrily, desperate to taste her, to imprint the memory of this moment forever in his mind. She responded in kind, seeming just as eager as he felt, as she knotted her fingers loosely in his hair and drew him ever closer, her lips full and warm against his. She trembled against him, and he wrapped his hands around her slender waist, drawing her into his lap and allowing her to take all that she desired from him. She gave a soft sigh of approval when he deepened the kiss, tasting her sweetness like honeyed wine as he drank as deeply of her as he dared; until they were both shaking from the intensity of it.

‘So… does that mean we are now officially… betrothed?’ asked Ithilrian shyly after they pulled apart, reaching behind her to run gentle fingers over the courting bead still set firmly in her hair. ‘You have asked, and I have answered. That is the way of it, yes?’ 

‘It is,’ Thorin nodded, still a little breathless. ‘Why? Do your kin have no formal proposals of that kind?’

‘Not really.’ She shook her head and slipped out of his lap, reclaiming her seat. ‘We simply _know_ when we’ve found the one we love. If that love is returned, there is no need for a formal proposition. It is a given that the couple will wish to wed, often as swiftly as may be.’ She tilted her head to one side, watching him closely. ‘The proposal. The words you just said… they carry great weight, do they not?’ she added softly. ‘I could see it in your face, hear it in your voice, and feel it in your heart when you kissed me.’ 

‘They did,’ he nodded, swallowing hard against the emotion that rose in his throat.

‘Then… perhaps there is a parallel,’ she replied quietly. ‘It would appear I am also guilty of giving gifts more weighty than they might at first appear, without proper explanation.’ She raised a hand to her neck, tapping one finger against the hollow of her throat thoughtfully. Thorin stared at her for a moment, not comprehending her meaning, until suddenly realization dawned. 

‘You mean this?’ he asked, reaching into his tunic and pulling out the Twilight Stone on its silver chain, easing it over his head and holding it high.

‘I do,’ she replied, smiling as the jewel winked and flickered in the light of the dying fire. ‘I really should have said something at the time, perhaps.’ 

‘Said something?’ Thorin felt his breath hitch, suddenly feeling nervous. He tightened his fingers on the stone’s slender chain. ‘Ithilrian, what is it you’re not telling me? Is it similar to the courting beads?’ 

‘In a way,’ replied the elf carefully. ‘But it is not a simple exchange, a question and an answer. These stones…’ she reached out a single finger to trace the delicate silver filigree around the jewel fondly. ‘I was given this when I was very young. Most scions of ancient houses bear their own individual versions. We keep them close, and wear them always, until…’ 

‘Until?’ encouraged Thorin, taking her hand in his own once more.

‘Until we find the one that the Valar have ordained for us,’ she finished shyly, seeming to blush faintly beneath his intense scrutiny. ‘Until we meet the other half of our souls.’ 

‘And then…?’ Thorin encouraged her gently. ‘What is the correct protocol? What does such a gift symbolize?’ 

‘It is my heart,’ she replied simply. She smiled gently at Thorin, who was looking at her in astonishment. ‘I told you, did I not, that you long held my heart in your keeping, although you knew it not?’ she added. ‘Any elf who saw you wearing that stone would know you were the one I loved.’ 

‘Truly?’ Thorin asked. His voice was hoarse, loaded with emotion as he gazed up at Ithilrian, realization dawning in his eyes. ‘Ithilrian, you are…’ he shook his head ruefully. ‘No wonder Gandalf looked so outraged, when I showed him the jewel in Bree,’ he added. ‘He must have thought I’d found it somewhere, or stolen it. After all, what elf would willingly give her heart to a dwarf?’ 

‘This elf,’ replied Ithilrian, with a gentle laugh. ‘This foolish old elf, who now bears nothing beside a handful of ancient regrets and a long-redundant title. Yet if you would still have me, my lord Thorin: I am yours, body and soul, until the end of time.’

‘Ithilrian…’ he shook his head in wonderment, unable to contain the joy that was welling up within his heart. ‘You are beyond belief,’ he murmured. ‘And here I thought my gift to you was premature. It seems I’ve been outdone by a decade.’ He grinned as she placed a hand over her mouth, trying to stifle an embarrassed giggle. ‘Fili and Kili will be delighted,’ he added. ‘They’ve been teasing me for days. Just wait until I tell them you secretly pledged yourself to me outside Ered Luin. They’ll never let either of us live this down.’ 

‘Good,’ she replied fondly. ‘I never want to forget this, Thorin. Not a single moment. The joy, the pain… all of it. I want it seared into my heart so that when the time comes… I can look back and remember.’ 

‘What time?’ asked Thorin. Ithilrian simply shook her head and smiled. 

‘My heart of hearts,’ she murmured softly, placing one hand flat against Thorin’s chest, pressing her palm against him lightly. ‘Brightest of souls. _Thorin, gerich veleth nîn. Gin melathon an-uir.’_

_‘Amrâlimê,’_ rumbled Thorin in reply. _‘Ibin abnâmulê.’_

Ithilrian tilted her head slightly. ‘I don’t know what that means,’ she breathed. 

‘It is ancient khuzdul,’ he replied. ‘My love. My beautiful gem.’ He watched a slow smile of delight spreading over her face. 

‘You told me once your language was a secret,’ she said quietly. ‘Never taught to outsiders and non-dwarves.’ 

‘It is,’ he replied. 

‘Then why are you telling me this?’ she asked. 

‘Because you are deep within my heart,’ he replied gently. ‘You are no more an outsider to me than Fili or Kili. When we reach Erebor… when we reclaim the mountain… I shall show you. Teach you properly.’ He paused, images flowing freely through his mind; of great carven hallways filled with light and laughter as they had been sixty years ago; of Ithilrian, standing beside him, clad in _mithril_ and finest sapphires, wearing the gem-encrusted crown that declared her as his bride.

‘What a queen you will make,’ he murmured softly. 

‘Queen?’ she asked quietly. ‘That is what you intend?’ 

‘Yes,’ he replied. ‘What else would you think the wife of a king might be?’ 

She shrugged. ‘Consort, perhaps. Or simply Lady of the Mountain. My line does not go in for royal titles, remember. Besides, do you think it will be wise, declaring an elf the queen of a dwarven kingdom?’ 

‘Wise or not, I shall do it,’ replied Thorin fiercely. ‘On my honour, I cannot offer myself to you and ask you to accept any less than is your due.’ 

‘Oh, Thorin,’ she said softly. ‘My heart.’ 

_‘Kurdûnizu,’_ he nodded seriously. ‘Your heart.’ He took her hand and pressed it against his chest again, so that she could feel the slow, steady pulse of it beneath his flesh. ‘Do you think you will be able to sleep without fear now?’ he added softly, noticing the tiredness lurking in her grey eyes. ‘You took fright earlier. If you deem it necessary, I could rest beside you for what remains of the night. If it would help you to sleep…?’ 

Ithilrian hesitated. ‘I do not believe that… _dream_ will plague me again tonight,’ she replied slowly. ‘However, I would like to keep you close. It is a comfort to me, to feel the strength of your heartbeat.’ 

‘The I shall stay close,’ he replied simply. He busied himself with the blankets, creating a small nest for them beside the dying fire, near enough to feel its warmth. He stretched out a hand invitingly, and she moved forwards, lying down tentatively beside him. The breath caught in his throat at the sight of her beneath him, close enough to touch; close enough for the embers of the fire to light her skin with a soft yellow glow, as though she was a being made of molten gold. Desire bloomed in him, hot and heady; but he forced the feelings aside. He lay down on his back beside her, realizing irritably that his shorter stature was likely to make lying together more difficult than he’d anticipated. But he need not have worried. As soon as he had settled Ithilrian curled around him like a cat, nuzzling close, resting her head on his chest and tucking her long legs up tightly. With a slow exhale of relief he allowed one arm to wrap around her, resting softly on the curve of her waist, holding her close. 

‘I can hear your heartbeat,’ she murmured drowsily. 

‘Good,’ he replied with a chuckle, watching her eyes flutter closed and her breathing begin to deepen. He hadn’t realized just how tired she must have been; for it seemed to take mere seconds for her to fall fast asleep. He blinked hard, attempting to stave off sleep for a little longer, to joy in the sight of her sweet face resting so close to his, serene and trusting upon his chest. He leaned forwards slightly, pressing the barest hint of a kiss to her hair, before lying back with a contented sigh and closing his eyes. They did not have much time left, he knew. Soon it would be day, and high time they continued their quest. With any luck, Mirkwood would be left swiftly behind; and their thoughts would have to turn away from each other, and back towards their goal. 

_But not just yet,_ his inner thought whispered drowsily. _Not right now. Right now, we have this._ And it seemed to Thorin, as his eyes drifted closed and his grip tightened on the woman sleeping beside him, that while Erebor was not yet within his grasp, he might have already managed to lay claim to his true heart’s desire after all.

~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well! I had intended to shift us a bit further along the story arc by the end of this chapter, but then Thorin happened. Not that I'm complaining, mind. More plot will occur in the next chapter. Promise. 
> 
>  
> 
> Translation notes:
> 
> Elvish:  
> Mae g’ovannen = well met  
> Veleth nîn = my love  
> Ammë = mother  
> A'maelamin = beloved  
> Gerich veleth nîn = you have my love  
> Gin melathon an-uir = I will love you for eternity. 
> 
> Khuzdul:  
> Ghivashel = treasure of treasures  
> Amrâlimê = my love  
> Ibin abnâmulê = my beautiful gem  
> Kurdûnizu. = your heart


	37. The Forest River

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the Company leave Mirkwood, and arrive at Laketown.

The following day dawned far, far too quickly, thought Thorin grumpily. It seemed as though he had barely closed his eyes for a moment when he felt Ithilrian stirring beside him, her soft movements tugging him into wakefulness. 

‘Stay,’ he muttered, keeping his eyes closed and clamping his arm tightly around her waist, holding her in place as she struggled to rise. 

‘Thorin,’ she murmured reproachfully. ‘Was it not you who said we must get an early start?’ She shifted beneath the weight of his arm. ‘This is hardly fair,’ he heard her grumbling. ‘I cannot move an inch until you relinquish your hold.’ 

‘Good.’ He rolled over, tugging her more closely into him, breathing in the sweet smell of honeysuckle as he buried his face in her silver hair. 

‘Thorin,’ she said again, a glimmer of amusement in her tone. ‘Come along, _a'maelamin_. The day beckons. Besides, we must negotiate with Thranduil for safe passage through what remains of the forest.’ 

Thorin wrinkled his nose in disgust. ‘Bah,’ he muttered, finally loosing his arm. ‘And now you have spoilt my pleasant dreams by mentioning that woodland waif.’ 

‘Just as I intended.’ He felt Ithilrian slip out from beneath his arm and groaned at the loss, finally opening his eyes and squinting up at the high arched ceiling. Around him he could hear the Company stirring as well, accustomed as they were to early starts. Even Bilbo was awake, sitting up in a heap of blankets, staring around blearily. 

‘What I wouldn’t give for a nice hot cup of tea,’ the hobbit muttered, seemingly to himself. ‘A good cooked breakfast too. Eggs, tomatoes, sausages, a nice bit of bacon maybe – and mushrooms. Yes, definitely mushrooms.’ 

‘Oi!’ Bofur nudged the drowsy hobbit. ‘Stop that, you. You’re making my belly rumble.’ 

‘Mmm.’ The sleepy hobbit shook his head, glancing around and catching Ithilrian’s eye. ‘I don’t suppose there’s a chance of any more of those pastries?’ he asked her beseechingly. ‘The lovely ones we had at Rivendell?’ 

‘Unfortunately, I suspect not,’ replied the silver elf, standing up and stretching out to her full height. 

‘Pastries?’ rumbled Thorin, finally giving in to the fact that it was morning, and heaving himself upright. ‘There were pasties at Rivendell?’ 

‘There certainly were,’ enthused Bilbo. ‘The most lovely sweet treats I’ve had in a while, and that’s saying a lot. There was fresh honeycakes, raspberry puffs, sweet wafers, fruited scones…’ the hobbit broke off, licking his lips.

‘Wait.’ Thorin scowled, glancing between Bilbo and Ithilrian. _‘That_ was what the elves meant when they asked if we wanted breakfast?’

‘It was,’ nodded Ithilrian mildly. 

‘Durin’s beard,’ he muttered, trying to ignore the glimmer of amusement in the elf’s grey eyes. ‘We ate from our own supplies. Bread and hard cheese, as I recall.’ 

‘There was a giant pot of tea too,’ Bilbo added with a yawn, still seeming lost in his own little world. ‘The best tea I’ve had outside the Shire. I wonder if wood elves have any here?’ 

‘Perhaps we should find out.’ Ithilrian ran a hand through her braids decisively. ‘The sooner we get this over with, the sooner we can be on our way.’ She stood up, trotting over to the door. Thorin heard a muffled exchange in sindarin occur with a wood elf who’d been standing directly outside. 

‘Breakfast will be brought to this hall,’ she told them when she returned. ‘Except for those who wish to speak with the King. Food will be served in the throne room.’ She glanced at Thorin. ‘I suspect I should accompany you,’ she added quietly. 

‘No.’ Thorin shook his head. ‘I am the leader of this Company. I will negotiate with Thranduil.’

‘Should I not be at your side?’ asked Ithilrian, surprised at the scowl that creased the dwarf king’s face. ‘I speak both sindarin and westron. Besides, I am an elf. Thranduil may prove more amenable to my requests than to yours.’ 

‘That is exactly why I want you to stay here,’ replied Thorin gruffly. ‘I do not trust that elf. I saw the way he looked at you.’ 

‘The way he looked at me?’ Ithilrian shook her head, bewildered. ‘I do not understand what you mean, _hîr vuin.’_

Thorin’s scowl deepened. ‘He will try to sway you,’ he snarled. ‘To win you over to his side. To…’ he hesitated, his hands balling themselves into fists, before muttering something in incomprehensible khuzdul. Balin rolled his eyes. 

‘What are you saying?’ asked Ithilrian. ‘Thorin, what is going on? What am I missing?’ 

‘Ignore him,’ snapped Dwalin, scowling. ‘He’s just jealous, lass. He thinks that pointy-eared bastard is going to try and claim you for himself. He is a king without a queen, after all.’ 

‘What?’ replied Ithilrian, her eyes widening in shock. ‘That’s preposterous!’ 

‘Is it?’ said Thorin angrily. ‘I’m not blind, Ithilrian. I know the way a man looks at a woman he desires. I saw it loud and clear in the elvenking’s eyes yesterday. I will not bring you before his throne again.’ 

‘Thorin, you are being unreasonable,’ sighed Ithilrian. ‘Even supposing you are correct – which you aren’t, by the way – what in the Valar’s name do you think could possibly sway me from your side?’ 

‘You’ll just have to put up with it,’ interrupted Fili, rolling his eyes. ‘Kili and I have been suffering Uncle’s overprotectiveness for years, Auntie Ithil. About time he had someone else to fret over.’ 

‘This is ridiculous,’ grumbled Ithilrian. ‘I am not some wilting meadowflower, ready to drop in a dead faint if the elvenking so much as looks at me. By the Lady Varda, Thorin, are you always so possessive before breakfast?’ 

‘Enough. I will not argue with you upon this.’ Thorin’s voice lowered, and for a moment his expression softened as he gazed up at the elf that had won his heart. ‘Please, Ithilrian,’ he added quietly. ‘Indulge the concerns of a worried dwarf. I’ve come too far to lose you now. Especially to _him.’_

Ithilrian hesitated, a sharp retort ready on her tongue. Thorin’s blue eyes were beseeching, wide and dark. But she could see a trace of anxiety flickering deep within his steady gaze. He really does believe it, she realized. 

‘Very well,’ she said slowly. ‘I will concede to you upon this point, Thorin. But please, at least take Balin with you.’ 

‘An excellent suggestion.’ The white-bearded dwarf nodded firmly, raising a stern eyebrow as Thorin opened his mouth to protest. ‘You’ve got a short temper and long-held grudge, laddie,’ he added. ‘In my book, that’s a bad combination when it comes to diplomacy.’

Thorin growled low in the back of his throat. ‘Very well,’ he nodded reluctantly. 

‘I could come too,’ a small voice piped up. Thorin turned to see Bilbo hovering behind him, a hopeful smile on his face. 

‘What?’ said Thorin, tilting his head to look at the hobbit questioningly. ‘Why?’

Bilbo shrugged. ‘Because I’m not an elf or a dwarf. Call me a neutral party, if you like. I don’t hold any ancient grudges or anything like that. I just want us out of this blasted forest.’ He shifted uncomfortably beneath the intensity of Thorin’s stare. ‘Besides, I have a large extended family,’ he added. ‘Negotiating between various cousins, aunts, and uncles who weren’t speaking for one reason or another was part of my life back in the Shire.’ A small smile of recollection flickered over the hobbit’s face. ‘I still remember the dreadful to-do when Olo Boffin swiped the last barrel of Old Toby from right under Gaffer Fosco’s nose. They wouldn’t even speak to one another for weeks. Had to communicate everything by proxy. Ridiculous.’ 

‘Really?’ Ithilrian leaned forwards interestedly. ‘What happened?’ 

Bilbo shrugged. ‘Their wives got fed up,’ he replied. ‘Olo’s wife Rosamund and the Gaffer’s missus were good friends, you see. They forced the menfolk to stop being stubborn and make it up with one another. Threatened to withhold their pumpkin pies, as I recall.’ He rocked back on his heels, pleased. ‘Never get on the wrong side of hobbit women,’ he added approvingly. 

‘Sound advice,’ nodded Ithilrian sagely. ‘I shall remember it well.’ 

‘Come on,’ interrupted Thorin grumpily. ‘Let’s get this over with. If we’re lucky, we’ll make it out of this accursed forest before Durin’s Day passes us by completely.’ 

~

Despite their early start, it was close on midday when word reached Ithilrian that they could get underway. Thorin had come storming back into the hall, barking gruff instructions to gather their gear and be ready to leave. Balin and Bilbo followed at his heels, Balin muttering into his beard and Bilbo grinning fit to burst. 

‘How did it go?’ asked Ithilrian, approaching the humming hobbit. ‘Bilbo, you look almost frighteningly pleased with yourself. What happened?’ 

‘I think that turned out rather well, all things considered,’ replied Bilbo, twisting his hands happily. ‘Do you know, the elvenking reminds me an awful lot of one of my cousins, Lobelia Sackville-Baggins. Same snooty expression, and penchant for other people’s silver. Once I’d figured that out, everything became a lot easier.’ 

Ithilrian shook her head, amused at the idea of comparing the immortal and powerful elvenking to a stuck-up Shire hobbit. ‘I find that… difficult to imagine,’ she replied with a smile. ‘But I assume we have been granted leave to travel once more?’ 

‘Indeed we have,’ interrupted Balin, coming over to clap a hand on Bilbo’s shoulder. ‘And not only that. Thanks to our burglar’s silver tongue, we’ve been offered an escort through the forest and into Laketown, plus passage downstream on one of the elven river barges. Should cut days off our travel-time.’ 

Ithilrian grinned. ‘You are full of surprises, Master Baggins. I did not expect you to be such an astute negotiator.’

‘Oh, well,’ the hobbit grinned embarrassedly. ‘It was hardly that difficult. Once Thorin had stopped yelling, anyway.’ 

‘Yelling?’ Ithilrian raised an eyebrow, turning to stare accusingly at the dwarf king. ‘Thorin?’ 

‘I hardly yelled at all,’ the dwarf replied disgruntledly. ‘And most of it was in khuzdul, anyway. I doubt he understood a word.’

‘But I did,’ added Balin. ‘And may I say, that it’s a good thing he didn’t know what you were calling him, Thorin. Wars have been started over lesser insults.’ 

‘Oh, I understood the gist of it. I simply chose to ignore him.’ The dwarves jumped in surprise as a low voice came drifting from the doorway. Thorin turned his head so fast that Ithilrian heard his neck crick. ‘That is often the easiest way, when negotiating with dwarves,’ added the Elvenking, stepping daintily into the hall, his long robes trailing elegantly behind him. ‘They are all bluster, with no real bite behind their words. Like a storm that blows itself out over the distant mountains, arriving as no more than a puff of wind.’ He smiled at the dark look that passed over Thorin’s face. _‘I wished to see for myself if the rumors were correct,’_ he added in silken sindarin, turning his cold blue eyes onto Ithilrian. _‘Word has reached me of your… affection for this dwarf. I did not believe it; but after such a display of temper, I was moved to wonder if there was indeed some truth to what the gossips are telling one another.’_

‘What is he saying to you? Does he offer you insult?’ snapped Thorin angrily, glancing between Ithilrian and Thranduil. The tension in the room rose palpably, as Ithilrian met the elvenking’s icy gaze head-on. 

_‘It is true,’_ replied Ithilrian, slipping easily into sindarin. _‘Thorin is my intended husband, my lord Thranduil. I will have no other in Middle Earth, or the shores beyond.’_

_‘I see,’_ nodded the elvenking slowly. His eyes never left Ithilrian’s. _‘A peculiar match for one such as yourself.’_ He stepped forwards, closing the distance between them. _‘Are you quite certain of this?’_ he added softly. _‘Are you assured that this is indeed the true calling of your heart? Mortal lives are like the mayflies that dance above the rivers in spring: bright but brief. They are here one day, then gone the next.’_ He paused, narrowing his eyes analytically. _‘He is hardly worthy of you,’_ he added softly. _‘The last of a ragged house, long bereft of Kingship. A wanderer of the wilds, no more. Do you truly think he will slay the dragon, and reclaim his lost kingdom?’_ Thranduil shook his head disparagingly. _‘Your beauty should not be wasted upon this dwarf. I would have you remain here at my side, Lady Ithilrian. Beneath the trees, beside the rivers, which may serve to warm your heart. For you are so fair, yet so cold: like a morning of pale spring still clinging to winter’s chill. Your power could help to cleanse these lands of the foulness that encroaches upon our ancient domain.’_ He tilted his head to one side, as though he wished to observe the effect his words had upon her. Ithilrian remained perfectly still, her expression betraying nothing.

_‘I thank you for the compliments, my lord Thranduil,’_ she replied quietly. _‘But I have made my choice. I accept my fate with open eyes. He will have need of me, before the end. I will see Smaug defeated, and Erebor reclaimed. I will see Thorin have a home once more. I have sworn it.’_

She moved to stand beside Thorin, laying one slender hand firmly on his shoulder. It was a gesture that was both protective and possessive; and the significance of it was not lost on the elvenking. 

‘Very well,’ he said, reverting back to westron. ‘I shall honour your decision, my lady. I shall be… interested to observe how your choice plays out.’ He dipped his head slightly to Ithilrian, before turning on his heel and disappearing in a dramatic sweep of shimmering robes. Ithilrian loosed a long, slow sigh of relief. 

‘By the Valar,’ she muttered to herself. She glanced sideways at Thorin, who was grinding his teeth angrily at Thranduil’s departing back. She noticed a muscle twitching in the dwarf king’s jaw. ‘My apologies for doubting you, _hîr vuin,’_ she added. ‘You were right. I believe we should leave as soon as we are able. Is the boat ready yet?’ 

‘It is,’ replied a quiet voice. Tauriel had appeared in the doorway unnoticed, smiling faintly. She bowed lightly to Ithilrian. ‘I am to be a part of your escort,’ she added. ‘If you are ready, I shall take you to the river docks.’ 

~ 

The barge was not what Thorin had expected. Its design was long and narrow, with high railings on either side. It sat lightly on the water, cunningly crafted from light grey wood, with a small sail and shallow keel. Several sylvan elves lined the railings, preparing to cast off. _This must be the escort we were promised,_ Thorin thought grimly, noticing with distaste that the King’s son Legolas was amongst them. He felt his expression crease into a thunderous scowl; but the blond elf was not looking at him. He was flipping one of his knives idly, watching Tauriel as she ushered the rest of the dwarves towards the boat. 

‘Our rivers are swift, and can sometimes be treacherous,’ Tauriel was saying, leading them aboard. ‘Light craft are the best for negotiating the more difficult areas. Especially the rapids.’ 

‘Rapids? Sorry, did you just say rapids?’ Bilbo was hovering to one side, an anxious expression clouding his face. ‘No-one mentioned those earlier,’ he added, glancing around uncertainly. 

‘You all right, Bilbo?’ said Bofur, offering his hand to the hobbit. ‘Come aboard with me. It’ll be fine, don’t fret.’ 

‘Umm… yes.’ The hobbit shifted from foot to foot uncomfortably. ‘It’s just that hobbits and boats aren’t generally a good mix, you see. We don’t like any water deeper than a bath, really.’ He eyed the barge distrustfully. ‘I was just… picturing something a little more sturdy, that’s all.’ 

‘Really?’ Balin shook his head in disbelief. ‘Doesn’t the Brandywine River run through the Shire? How do your people cope with that?’ 

‘Bridges,’ sniffed Bilbo disapprovingly. ‘We also have a ferry, of course. But it’s very large, and very sturdy, and it floats along _very slowly.’_

‘I see.’ Balin was trying hard to contain his amusement. ‘Well, unfortunately for you, this is the swiftest way out of Mirkwood. The River Running will take us directly down to the Long Lake, and what remains of Esgaroth.’ 

‘I know,’ grumbled Bilbo, still eyeing the boat with distrust. ‘Just… I’ll be a lot happier when we’re safely back on dry land. That’s all.’ 

Thorin shook his head exasperatedly. ‘Come on,’ he urged. ‘The sooner we’re on the move, the quicker it’ll be over.’ In truth, he did not like the look of the flimsy elven craft at all. It didn’t appear at all safe or sturdy to his eye. But he was damned if he was going to show so much as a blink of apprehension in front of the wood elves. Besides, Ithilrian seemed to be perfectly happy with it. She had already accosted one of the elves on board the boat, and was eagerly discussing its construction with him. The dark-haired wood elf looked surprised at her enthusiasm, but quickly warmed up to her once she pointed out various similarities between the woodland barge and the grey boats that the Lórien elves apparently used to navigate the River Anduin. Thorin shook his head in amusement. 

‘What’re those for? Ballast?’ asked Kili, pointing at the barrels that had been lashed into place at the front of the barge. 

‘They are empty,’ replied Tauriel, tapping one lightly. ‘We return them to the Lakemen after use. The river is by far the swiftest route for trade as well as travel.’ 

‘Let’s hope it’s swift enough,’ growled Dwalin. ‘Enough yapping, boys. Let’s get underway, and pray to Mahal that we don’t all drown before Durin’s Day.’ 

‘Have no fears,’ one of the elven shipwrights said, using a long pole to launch the barge from its dock. ‘Our boats are light, but strong. Even burdened with the weight of thirteen dwarves, it will not sink.’ 

‘Oh good,’ muttered Bilbo, who was already looking distinctly green around the gills. ‘That’s lovely to know.’ The barge slid smoothly through the calm waters, following the current as it took them away from the elven halls and back into the open forest once more. 

‘We are approaching the first set of sluices,’ said Tauriel, as the barge drew close to a large stone wall, patrolled by the sylvan guard. ‘The lever for opening them is set upon the wall. Once we are through, we’ll be out onto open water. Our journey will become faster, and more perilous.’ 

‘More perilous?’ squeaked Bilbo. He looked dismally unhappy. 

‘It’s all right,’ said Bofur, throwing one sturdy arm around the miserable hobbit and kissing the top of his curly head, as the elven guards began calling down to Tauriel and Legolas in agitated sindarin. ‘I’ve got you,’ he added. ‘Safe and sound, eh? Don’t worry Bilbo. I won’t let anything happen to ye.’ 

Thunk. 

A black-fletched arrow embedded itself into the railing just beside the dwarf’s hand. Bofur pulled back as though he’d been stung. ‘What the…?’ 

_‘Yrch!’_ came a cry from above. ‘Orcs! We’re under attack!’ 

Thorin was already reaching for Orcrist as the guttural yells and snarls of an orc-pack shattered the forest stillness. For a moment he felt sheer rage constricting his throat as a familiar loathsome shape appeared, heaving itself up onto the wall and crushing an unfortunate elven guard with a single sweeping blow. 

‘Azog!’ Thorin snarled furiously. ‘He’s tracked us down!’ The pale orc roared his triumph, wielding his enormous mace with deadly force. Wood elves fell before him like blades of grass before a farmer’s scythe, as more and more orcs crawled over the perimeter walls. The hiss and rattle of arrows filled the air as the elves around Thorin unslung their bows, sending a hail of deadly shafts upwards as the barge slowed to a gradual halt, blocked by the heavy metal sluices. 

‘We’re sitting ducks down here!’ roared Dwalin, brandishing his axes furiously. ‘I saw we leave the boat, Thorin! Let’s go and get ‘em!’ 

‘Wait!’ called Bilbo, who had ducked behind a handy barrel. ‘The lever’s just up there! We could escape!’ 

‘I’ll get it,’ snapped Ithilrian, slinging her bow over her shoulder and backing up a few paces. ‘Be ready when the boat begins to move!’ she added, before taking a running leap straight off the side of the barge, and into the overhanging foliage. She swung herself up into the trees with ease, running lightly along the branches until she was able to climb up onto the wall. Ducking between the skirmishing groups of elves and orcs, she was able to easily locate the control lever. Ignoring Thorin’s furious shout from below, she threw her full weight against it, grunting in satisfaction at the grinding sound of metal on stone. 

‘Auntie Ithil! Come back!’ called Kili wildly, as the barge shot out from beneath the wall, propelled forwards by the strong river current. 

‘Don’t worry! I’ll catch you up!’ she called back, glancing around swiftly and unsheathing her knives. An orc launched itself towards her and she easily ducked the first clumsy blow, spinning like a dancer and thrusting her dagger into the creature’s vulnerable throat, tugging it free as a plume of black blood fountained out. She ignored the fighting around her, leaping from the walls and into the trees, racing along the branches, following the curve of the river as it picked up speed. Orcs were lining the banks as well, some firing arrows at the barge as it passed, others running to keep pace with the boat as it surged along the hastening river current. 

‘Look out!’ bellowed Dori, swinging his sword angrily as several orcs threw themselves from the overhanging rocks and onto the barge itself, brandishing bloodstained weapons; only to be cut down within moments by a furious whirlwind of dwarven steel. 

‘Bastards,’ snarled Dwalin, hefting his axes. The heavily built warrior appeared to have no problem fighting upon the swiftly-moving barge, shifting his weight with practiced ease in order to maintain balance. ‘More of ‘em up ahead!’ he called, as the river straightened out. ‘Watch out!’ 

A rudimentary barricade had been set up downriver. It was upon this that several orc archers were crouching, firing arrow after arrow directly at the oncoming boat. Kili cried out in pain as a black-feathered shaft found its mark in his thigh. 

‘Get down!’ bellowed Thorin, tugging his nephews down beside him, using the empty barrels as cover. ‘Down!’ 

‘I’m all right,’ grunted Kili, struggling to sit upright. ‘Just a scratch, it barely grazed me!’ 

‘We’re too easy a target,’ breathed Tauriel, as she crouched beside Kili. Her hands worked swiftly, disregarding her bow, tearing a strip off the hem of her coat to tie a tourniquet around the dwarf’s injured limb. 

‘What about the barrels?’ gasped Bilbo. He was kneeling on the floor of the barge, his skin an unhealthy greenish pallor. One hand was white-knuckled around the hilt of Sting, and the other was clutching a rope. 

‘The barrels?’ snapped Thorin, glancing from side to side impatiently. The orcs were still keeping pace with them along the banks. Fear and rage churned sickeningly within him at the sight of his wounded nephew. 

‘Yes,’ nodded the ill-looking hobbit breathlessly. ‘We could cut the ropes that hold the barrels, they could knock out some of the archers…?’ 

‘Yes,’ breathed Nori, the cunning dwarf’s face lighting up in an evil smile. ‘Mister Baggins, you are a bloody genius.’ He pulled a knife from his belt and began hacking at the slender ropes that held the empty barrels in place. Bilbo put Sting to good use as well. Within a matter of seconds the barrels sprang loose, jolted free from the barge as they hit a particularly turbulent stretch of water. Far lighter than the barge itself, the barrels sped downstream, bouncing and spinning off protruding rocks and the high riverbanks, until they slammed straight into the orcish barricade with a terrific crunch, smashing straight through the flimsy construct. The orcs wailed and screamed as they were hurled into the river, scrambling at the sides of the barge as it sped past them. Several lost fingers to Nori’s knife as they scrabbled for purchase on the boat’s smooth sides. Others received hefty wallops on the head from Bofur’s mattock and Bombur’s soup ladle. The rest of the dwarves whooped and cheered as the boat picked up speed, continuing to hurtle recklessly downriver. 

‘We’re going too fast!’ cried Tauriel. 

‘No such thing,’ retorted Dori, gripping a rail tightly. ‘We want to outrun these orcs, don’t we?’ 

‘We do,’ snapped Legolas, looming behind Tauriel and scowling at the sight of her still crouched over the wounded Kili. ‘But we’re approaching the rapids. If we don’t take the right turns, we’ll go over the waterfall!’ 

_‘Waterfall?_ Oh my heavens. Oh, sweet Yavanna save us,’ moaned Bilbo. ‘I think I’m going to be sick.’ 

‘Are you all right? Are you wounded?’ asked Tauriel breathlessly. 

‘No,’ Bilbo shook his head mournfully. ‘I just hate rivers. Remind me to never, ever, _ever_ do this again. If we survive, that is,’ he added, ducking as another orc tried to leap onto their barge from an overhanging branch, only to be skewered by Bifur’s boar spear. Legolas was up, calling out in sindarin to the remaining elven shipwrights, as they maneuvered the barge around the river’s winding bends. More orcs leapt to attack them; but they were speedily repelled. 

_We may yet survive this,_ thought Thorin grimly, whirling Orcrist in an arc of shimmering silver. From the corner of his eye he caught sight of a familiar shape darting through the trees. He grinned. Ithilrian was running through the branches as skillfully as any sylvan elf, not far behind the barge as it sped onwards. But the smile swiftly dropped from his face, and his heart lurched up into his throat as he recognized the leering pale shape below her. Azog was keeping pace with them, astride his white warg once more. 

‘Watch out!’ he cried, slashing desperately at the orc in front of him, keeping his eyes trained on the slender elf. ‘Behind you!’ 

The words had barely left his mouth when the barge slewed to a juddering halt, almost hurling him into the river. A trailing rope had become trapped, looped over a jutting spire of river rock. A string of curses filled the air as the dwarves struggled to regain their feet; followed swiftly by yells of defiance and battle cries, as the orc pack took swift advantage of their sudden stop. Thorin had his hands full, slashing left and right desperately with Orcrist, as the orcs leapt at them from every side. 

‘Cut the rope!’ he bellowed. ‘Cut it! Now!’ But there was no-one close enough to do so. From the corner of his eye he watched Ithilrian drop down from a high branch onto a rocky precipice that overhung the river. It was with a calculating expression that the elf unslung her bow, nocking an arrow to her string and aiming directly at the offending rope. Thorin did not even have time to cry a warning as a pale, loathsome shape sprang upon her from the shadows. The arrow flew from her bow; but the shot went wild, the arrow missing its mark and zipping harmlessly into the trees. The weight of the white warg bowled the fragile elf over, and the pale orc’s mace caught her a glancing blow to the shoulder. Thorin could do nothing but watch as the fragile elf dropped, hurled backwards by the sheer force of the hit. She gasped in pain, dropping her bow, as the white warg turned, snarling, and Azog readied his mace for another swing. 

‘Ithilrian!’ Thorin bellowed in panic, slicing through the orcs that sprang up in front of him as though they were no more substantial than ghosts. _‘Run!’_ His hands were white-knuckled on the hilt of Orcrist, and the taste of fear was bitter on his tongue. But he could do nothing but watch in growing horror as the elf rolled aside, narrowly dodging a crushing blow aimed at her skull. She scrabbled among the leaves as the black mace thudded down again and again. Her searching fingers closed upon her bow, and she raised it above her head defensively as she scrambled backwards, trying to ward off the pale orc as Azog surged forwards, his face twisted into a hideous snarl of triumph. He brought down his weapon with vicious force, splintering her bow into fragments and knocking the elf even further backwards. But before he could deliver the deathblow the agile elf had slithered aside. She dropped the shattered remains of her weapon and pushed herself off the ledge, curling up into a protective ball. Thorin watched aghast as Ithilrian dropped like a stone, hitting the water with a resounding splash. 

With a sudden jolt, the barge broke free and began moving again. Bilbo had appeared beside the rope, and a single slash from Sting had freed the boat from its tether. The rest of the Company made short work of the remaining orcs as Thorin hurtled towards the edge of the barge, calling for Ithilrian, blue eyes scanning the foaming water desperately. 

‘There!’ cried Legloas. His keen elvish eyes were narrowed, and he pointed just to the left of where Thorin was looking. In a matter of seconds the woodland prince had cast out a rope. Thorin breathed a sigh of relief as a pale hand reached out to grasp it, lending his strength to pull the spluttering Ithilrian aboard. She was soaked to the skin and gasping for breath. Without a second thought Thorin barged Legolas aside, pulling her close. A dark stain was spreading swiftly over her tunic. He tore off his jerkin and pressed it to the wound, trying to staunch the flow of blood that was even now staining his hands crimson. _Elvish blood, immortal blood,_ he thought in horror. _She can’t die. Not like this._ He snarled a wordless prayer to Mahal, to the Valar; to anyone else who might be listening. _Don’t let her die,_ he prayed. _Don’t let that monster take her from me as well._

‘Did we lose them? I think we lost them!’ he heard Bofur call. They’d left all of the orcs behind, Thorin realized. Their harsh cries and battle screams were receding into the distance, drowned out by a strange roaring sound, which was gradually becoming louder and louder, until…

_‘Hold on!’_

With a bone-shattering jolt, the barge leaped from the river. It seemed to hang in empty space for a moment, before plunging over the waterfall, plummeting down the roaring cascade before landing flat with a deafening _whumpf_ in the roiling waters below, somehow staying miraculously upright and intact, still bearing its cargo of screaming, bellowing dwarves. Thorin swore loudly, his heart in his mouth and his hands around Ithilrian, having pulled her tightly into his chest to protect the injured elf. He dashed the spray from his eyes and stared around wildly. Bilbo had wrapped himself around one of the rails and was clinging on for grim death, his eyes tightly closed. The wood elves, he noticed with some irritation, were still standing upright, having kept their balance throughout. _Bloody elves,_ he thought to himself viciously. _Didn’t warn us about the waterfall, did they? At least, not till it was too late…_

‘Is that it? Are we safe?’ spluttered Ori tremulously, trying to heave himself upright. 

‘Don’t bet on it,’ growled Dwalin. Drenched and dripping as the warrior dwarf was, he looked for all the world like a furious guard dog that someone had just thrown a bucket of water over. ‘Damn orc scum are still back there somewhere,’ he added, peering around, his eyes narrowed into vicious slits. ‘That was Azog again. Not likely he’ll give up the chase so easily…’ 

‘He’ll have to find a way down the waterfall first,’ snapped Legolas. ‘It’s a sheer drop on either side for quite a distance. We have a good start.’

‘Aye?’ Dwalin snarled angrily. ‘Didn’t tell us about that bloody waterfall, did you?’ 

The blond elf raised an eyebrow. ‘We did not intend to come this way. During the chaos, I believe we must have taken the wrong bend in the river.’ 

‘Wrong bend?’ echoed Dwalin incredulously. _‘Wrong bend?’_

‘We’re all alive, aren’t we?’ replied Legolas stiffly. ‘Besides, this route is even faster than the one we’d intended to take. We will reach the Long Lake very soon.’ 

‘Good,’ interrupted Thorin angrily, forestalling the argument that was about to break out. ‘We need to get to Lake Town. Kili and Ithilrian are hurt. They need rest and medicine.’

‘I’m fine,’ snarled Ithilrian, trying to push herself up on one elbow. ‘I’ve hurt myself worse than this falling out of a tree.’ 

‘That’s a damned lie and you know it,’ said Oin loudly, kneeling beside the elf and pulling Thorin’s bloodied tunic aside to peer at the wound. 

‘How’d you know that?’ gasped the elf, wincing in pain.

‘Because you’re an elf, lass. Last time I looked, they don’t fall out of trees. Practically live in them, your lot.’ The grumpy healer sniffed, replacing Thorin’s tunic and pressing lightly. Ithilrian groaned. ‘Sorry lass,’ he added. ‘It’s not deep, but it’ll bleed a lot. Got to keep the pressure on it.’ 

‘I know,’ snapped Ithilrian. ‘Healer, remember?’ 

‘Aye? Then you’d best lie back and keep your mouth shut,’ replied Oin sternly. ‘You know that’s what’s best for you right now.’ He shook his head irritably as the elf nodded in submission, lying back with a groan. He beckoned Thorin over, grabbing one of the dwarf king’s hands and pressing it gently over the wound. ‘Just like that, laddie. Keep the pressure on it. I’ve taken a look at Kili, and I reckon he’ll be fine so long as the arrow wasn’t poisoned. It hit no arteries, and broke no bones. It’s not deep. The shaft just grazed a bit of flesh, that’s all.’

‘Thank you,’ grunted Thorin, relief pouring from him in waves. ‘How long till we reach Laketown?’ 

‘Not long,’ replied Tauriel. ‘We’re almost out of the forest. We’ll reach the lake soon.’ 

‘Not soon enough,’ Thorin muttered. He looked down at Ithilrian, meeting the elf’s grey gaze. Her face was creased in pain and her breath came in sharp, shallow gasps. But still she smiled at him, murmuring his name as he leaned over her, his dripping hair forming a dark curtain around them. ‘Don’t you dare die on me,’ he murmured softly, pressing a kiss to her damp brow. ‘Not now.’

‘I have no intention of doing so,’ she replied with a wince. ‘But unfortunately, I believe I could use another change of tunic. This one appears to be ruined. Again.’ 

~

It took over an hour for the Company to arrive at Laketown. Their barge nosed into the docks with very little trouble. The lakemen were obviously used to the elves arriving in such a manner, although surprise was expressed at the lack of barrels and the sudden appearance of thirteen dwarves and one small hobbit. 

‘We must speak with the Master of the town,’ Legolas said imperiously. The elf prince looked a little damp from their rough ride downriver, but other than that appeared completely unaffected. The dwarves were in slightly worse shape, many of them having been drenched by the spray from the sides of the barge. Ithilrian and Kili were in the worst shape of all. The young dwarf was hobbling, insisting he could stand while leaning heavily on his older brother. Ithilrian was standing too, supported by Tauriel as they made their way slowly towards the town square. Thorin squared his shoulders as a tall, overweight man appeared, speaking obsequiously to Legolas, while casting a calculating eye over the ragged band of dwarves. He tried to listen in on the exchange, but could catch no more than the occasional word. 

‘I have warned him of the orcs, and told him that you are under the Woodland Realm’s protection,’ the elf prince informed Thorin when he returned. ‘Lodgings have been offered to you: a house just down the waterway. It should be large enough to accommodate you all. A healer has been sent for as well.’ 

‘My thanks,’ replied Thorin gruffly, looking at the blond elf with some surprise.

‘It is no trouble,’ the prince shrugged, meeting Thorin’s gaze steadily. ‘The city guards have been alerted, and Tauriel and I shall remain on watch. If the orcs come again, we shall have warning this time. But I believe we are safe, for now.’ He glanced over to where Tauriel was speaking quietly with Ithilrian, encouraging the wounded elf forwards. ‘Take whatever rest you can,’ Legolas added quietly. ‘Allow her to heal before you go to the mountain.’ 

Thorin nodded distractedly. ‘Where will you be, should we have need of you?’ 

Legolas raised his eyebrows in surprise. ‘We will remain within shouting distance,’ he replied slowly. ‘Elves have keen ears. If you need us, call. We will hear.’ 

‘I am familiar with elvish hearing,’ muttered Thorin, as they made their way along to the house that had been set aside for them. ‘I have been told that it’s always sharper than you think it’s going to be.’ 

The blond elf smiled at that. ‘Wise words.’ He halted at the door, bowing slightly to Thorin. ‘Until the morning, Thorin Oakenshield. _Namárië.’_

~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so to Laketown! :D I hope you enjoyed that chapter, folks. I tried to maintain the spirit of PJ's barrel ride section in DoS, but twisted it to fit my own diabolical ends. I think it turned out okay….?   
> :)
> 
>  
> 
> Translation notes:
> 
> A'maelamin = beloved  
> Hîr vuin = my lord  
> Yrch = orcs  
> Namárië = farewell.


	38. A Stolen Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Thorin and Ithilrian spend the night in Laketown together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, so here's your obligatory warning, folks: this is the chapter that will bump up the rating for this fic. Certain upcoming parts will be NSFW.

The house on the lake was large, but dark and dimly lit. The door opened up into a wide living area, with a rough kitchen off to one side. A rickety wooden staircase led up three additional floors, finally culminating in a small attic room right at the top of the house. 

‘A giant house in a lake,’ grumbled Bilbo, stepping gingerly over the threshold as though afraid the entire structure might collapse without warning. ‘Of all the places in Middle Earth...’ 

‘Cheer up Bilbo,’ said Ori happily, patting the burglar’s shoulder with a gloved hand. ‘At least we can have a rest and get a bite to eat here!’ 

‘Aye, laddie. It’s perfectly safe,’ nodded Balin. ‘The men of Laketown have been living here for decades. They know what they’re about.’ 

‘I’m sure they do. It’s just… hobbits and water, remember? Not a good combination.’ Bilbo shuddered, trying desperately _not_ to think about the fathomless icy depths below, and the water lapping at the wooden boards directly beneath his feet. ‘I’d be a lot more comfortable on solid ground,’ he muttered. 

‘It won’t be for long,’ replied Ori sympathetically. ‘We’ll probably be leaving as soon as they healers have sorted out Kili and Miss Ithilrian.’ He broke off as Thorin stamped heavily through the door, a scowl plastered firmly upon his features. 

‘I do not trust that Master of Laketown,’ he muttered angrily. ‘He asks too high a price for his aid.’ 

‘What price?’ asked Balin wearily. ‘Thorin, we cannot afford to abuse these people’s hospitality. We have wounded to look out for.’ 

‘You think I don’t know that?’ the dwarf king snapped furiously. His hands clenched and unclenched anxiously as he glanced around. ‘Where are they?’ he added. 

‘Fili and Kili are in the largest bedroom just down the hall,’ replied Ori quickly. ‘Miss Ithilrian is there too, and Oin, and the healer lady from Laketown. Everyone else has gone upstairs to rest.’ 

‘Good.’ Thorin stomped off with a whirl of his coat, marching down the hallway and brushing impatiently past Dori and Nori before entering the sick room. Oin was grumbling to himself, grinding up something in a large pestle and mortar. The human healer was standing beside him, sorting through a large bundle of herbs. Kili was lying sprawled on the narrow bed, his brother hovering protectively over him. Despite her injury, Ithilrian was stalking up and down the room with long angry strides, a thunderous expression on her face. 

‘Uncle!’ called Kili, waving one hand languidly from his prone position on the large, human-sized bed. ‘There you are! I was wondering when you’d show up!’ 

‘Ignore him,’ growled Oin. ‘It’s the pain tonic speaking. It’s made him go butterfly-brained.’ He glanced sideways at the foolish grin on the young prince’s face. ‘Even more so than usual,’ he added disgruntledly. 

‘How is he doing?’ Thorin asked. 

‘The cut itself is not deep,’ the human healer answered instead, her voice sharp and professional. ‘It should heal quickly, with care. But we think the arrowhead may have been dirty, or poisoned. The skin around the wound appears red and inflamed, and he seems far weaker than he should be.’

‘So we’re not taking any chances,’ interrupted Oin, continuing to grind herbs fiercely. ‘Don’t fret, Thorin. We’ve got the ingredients to make pretty much any anti-venom in the book. He’ll be fine. We just need time.’ 

Thorin groaned internally. Time was the one thing they didn’t have. ‘You’re certain?’ he asked.

‘As certain as I can be, aye,’ nodded Oin tiredly. ‘Get some rest, laddie. You can do no good hovering around here like a gnat over a pond. I’ve got all the help I need.’ He indicated the human healer with a tilt of his head. 

‘So long as it works,’ muttered Ithilrian, pausing in her pacing to peer over the older dwarf’s shoulder. 

‘For the love of Mahal,’ snapped Oin, frustration writ large on his features. ‘Will you sit down, you wretched woman! I swear, elves are the very worst patients in Arda. You’ll only make that shoulder wound worse if you’re not careful!’ 

‘It’s my fault,’ said Ithilrian, seeming to utterly ignore the stressed dwarf’s irritable words. ‘I should have been faster. I should have protected him. I should…’ 

‘Ithilrian.’ Thorin stepped up, snapping her name out harshly, as a surge of protective anger welled up within him. ‘Do as Oin says.’ 

She shot him a glare, pausing in her pacing, only to resume it a moment later. ‘If only I still had my bow,’ she mumbled, one hand clenching and unclenching angrily, the other hanging awkwardly by her side. ‘If those foul spawn get within another _inch_ of him again, I swear by the Lady Varda, I’ll…’

‘You’ll what?’ snapped Thorin, closing the distance between them, reaching out and grasping her good arm tightly. ‘You’ll go up against an entire orc-pack, and Azog himself again, unarmed and injured? You’ll only get yourself killed!’ His voice rose, louder than he’d intended, driven by the fear that welled up in his gut. 

‘I am not asking for your permission!’ replied Ithilrian furiously, rounding on him and fixing him with a wrathful stare. 

‘Good,’ growled Thorin in reply. ‘Because I do not intend to give it.’ He narrowed his eyes, tightening his grip on the elf’s slender wrist, as she opened her mouth to snarl at him.

‘Uncle! Auntie Ithil!’ called Kili loudly. ‘Don’t fight, it’s making me feel all woozy.’ He shifted uncomfortably, gazing up at them both with wide, beseeching eyes. ‘Please stop yelling,’ he added, glancing between them both hopefully. ‘It makes my head hurt.’ 

‘Uncle? _Auntie?’_ the human healer muttered incredulously, glancing between the dark-haired dwarves and the tall pale elf in astonishment. Ithilrian pulled herself away from Thorin’s grasp, kneeling at Kili’s side in an instant. 

‘I’m sorry Kili,’ she said quietly, laying a tender hand on the young dwarf’s forehead. ‘I didn’t mean to upset you.’ 

‘S’allright,’ replied Kili, with a ghost of his habitual cheeky grin. ‘Don’t be cross, Auntie. Uncle’s only shouting at you because he was scared he was going to lose you. Uncle, please don’t yell at her. She’s just mad because I got shot.’ The young dwarf’s voice slurred and his head slumped sideways. ‘S’not a good feeling, getting shot,’ he added with a giggle. ‘M’not doing that again.’ 

‘No, you are not,’ said Ithilrian quietly. She bowed her head, resting it for a moment against the bedstead. ‘Do you know, I think I will go and sit down for a moment,’ she added slowly. ‘I feel very tired all of a sudden.’ Thorin’s stomach clenched anxiously at the sound of the tremor that laced her voice. 

‘Come on,’ he said softly, lowering his voice to a gentle rumble. ‘I’ll come with you. I should leave the healers to their work. Oin, which rooms are still free?’ 

‘As far as I know, no-one’s claimed the top one,’ the dwarf replied tiredly. ‘Go on, upstairs with you both. Anything changes down here, I’ll let you know.’ He lowered his brows and glared at Ithilrian. ‘Get Thorin to see to that shoulder of yours,’ he added. ‘It still needs attention. The last thing you need is an infection setting in.’ He paused in his grinding, plucking a small selection of medicine vials and a roll of clean bandages out of his open pack. ‘Here,’ he added, thrusting the miscellaneous bundle at Thorin. ‘She’ll show you what to do. Now go on, get some rest. I’ll send young Fili up if I need anything.’ 

‘Very well.’ Thorin nodded, ignoring the curious look he got from the human healer as he placed one hand on the small of Ithilrian’s back and walked her slowly out of the room. They climbed the rickety stairs in silence. 

‘This should be the one,’ muttered Thorin, as they reached the top. A small door opened into a low attic room, with a sloping triangular roof and a single narrow window overlooking the town. An empty fireplace sat at one end of the room, and a large human-sized bed sat at the other, taking up almost all of the space.

‘Go and sit down,’ he said quietly, pushing Ithilrian gently towards the bed. ‘I’ll get a fire going.’ He busied himself with the basket of wood and kindling, setting a small fire in the grate that was soon crackling merrily. He allowed himself a small smile, feeling the temperature of the room beginning to rise, the warmth a welcome relief.

‘Thank you,’ muttered Ithilrian, her voice barely audible. He turned his head, noticing with concern the stiffness of her movements as she sank gingerly down onto the edge of the bed with a small groan. ‘I am sorry I snapped at you,’ she added softly, her head bowed. ‘I was angry, and frightened. I did not mean to…’ 

‘It’s all right.’ Thorin got to his feet, stepping carefully over the creaking floorboards towards her. ‘It’s all right. I’m sorry too.’ She was leaning forwards, her long pale hair falling over her shoulders, concealing her expression. The breath caught in Thorin’s throat when he noticed that the ends of her braids were dark with dried blood.

‘We’re both afraid,’ he said quietly, reaching out towards her, taking one of her hands and squeezing it lightly. ‘And when we’re afraid, we lash out.’ His gaze dropped to her shoulder, and he felt his gut clench tightly. Her grey tunic had been torn open at the seam. He could see her flesh through the rip, red and raw and bloody. 

‘Oin gave me these,’ he replied gruffly, spreading the bundle of medicines out on the bed beside her. ‘I am hoping you’ll know what to do with them. I am no healer, and my hands are ungentle; but will you trust me to tend to your injury, _amrâlimê?’_

She gave a long, low sigh. ‘When you put it like that, how can I refuse?’ she murmured, glancing at him with an expression that was half amused, half frustrated. 

‘That was the idea,’ replied Thorin, offering her a small smile. ‘Now, what must I do first?’ 

‘Put some water to warm over the fire,’ she replied tiredly. ‘Once you’ve done that, I shall teach you to make a pain draft with the herbs Oin’s given us. Then, the wound will need to be cleaned and dressed.’ 

‘Very well.’ Thorin nodded, pouring water from a nearby jug into a large copper kettle, and settling it over the fire before returning to the bed. Ithilrian still had not moved. Her hands were clenched on the mattress as though in pain. 

‘I should be downstairs with Kili,’ she muttered. ‘I should be the one looking after him, Thorin.’ 

‘I feel the same way,’ replied Thorin quietly. ‘But you are wounded; and I have long since learned that the most useful thing I can do is stay out of the way of the healers when there’s work to be done.’ He hesitated. ‘It is time he needs,’ he muttered, half to himself. ‘That’s what Oin said. Fear of infection, of poison…’ he shook his head. ‘Time is the one thing we lack, Ithilrian. It’s only a matter of days until Durin’s Day passes us by, and we lose the only chance we have!’ He ran his fingers through his hair in frustration. ‘I cannot afford to wait,’ he said, his voice hoarse with anguish. ‘I cannot. For my legacy; for my people. They are depending on me to get this right, and I must do it!’ 

Ithilrian blinked, tilting her head slightly. One hand snaked out to grasp Thorin’s lightly, seeking the warmth of his palm, feeling the roughness of his skin from a life of long hardship and perils. ‘You mean to go on without him,’ she said softly, understanding blooming slowly within her. ‘You mean to leave him behind.’

‘Yes.’ Thorin bowed his head, his grip tightening on her hand until he was clutching it like a lifeline. ‘And he is not the only one.’ 

‘Thorin…’ Ithilrian’s voice sunk to a whisper as she realized what he meant. ‘No, Thorin, _a'maelamin,_ please! You cannot do this!’ 

‘I must,’ he said, his voice low and rasping. ‘It is the only way.’ 

‘No.’ Ithilrian shook her head fiercely, ignoring the pain that lanced through her shoulder as she did so. ‘No, it is not. I am strong, and heal swiftly. I will not be a burden! I can come with you!’ Her voice rose, tinged with desperation. 

_‘No!’_ He leaned forwards, frustration etched into every line of his face. ‘I will not risk both of you!’ He raised his head to look into her eyes, matching her distraught gaze with one of his own. ‘Do you not see?’ he said desperately. ‘I _must_ leave Kili. You heard what Oin said. I will not risk him succumbing to some foul poison from that wound, high in the mountain where there is no help. But I cannot just leave him alone and injured in a strange town among strange folk!’ His eyes scanned her face, searching for understanding. ‘Do you see? I dare not take him – and I dare not leave him behind. Not alone.’ 

‘You wish me to stay behind… to watch over Kili?’ she said slowly. 

‘Yes,’ he replied hoarsely. ‘I trust you. I know it is a lot to ask, _kurdûnuh._ It is not that I doubt your strength, or your courage. But I know you will watch over my nephew as fiercely as a lioness guarding her cub. As if he were your own kin.’ 

‘I will,’ she replied, her voice low and strained. ‘You ask much of me, Thorin. But I shall do it.’ Her shoulders slumped, and her head fell forwards wearily. ‘I shall do it,’ she repeated softly. ‘I will remain behind with Kili.’ 

He breathed out a long, slow sigh of relief. ‘Thank you.’ 

Ithilrian simply shook her head. She looked up at him with eyes as grey as the shadows of twilight, with such pain and weariness in her gaze with Thorin felt guilt writhing inside him like a long pale snake, coiling around his ribcage, making him sick to his stomach.

‘I’m sorry,’ mumbled. ‘It it could be any other way…’ 

‘Let us not speak of it.’ Ithilrian bit her lip, wincing as another twinge of pain shot through her wounded shoulder. ‘We still have an evening’s grace, Thorin. I do not wish to spend the entire night with you in sorrow, fearful of what the dawn will bring.’ 

‘You’re right.’ Thorin squared his shoulders. ‘And I have been most remiss,’ he added gruffly, reaching to grab the bundle of medicines so quickly that he knocked several vials on the floor. ‘You are still in pain, and I am adding to your woes instead of trying to help.’ He stooped to pick them up, spreading them out before him. ‘What must I do?’ he asked. He watched as Ithilrian leaned forwards, deftly sorting through the herbs and bottles that Oin had pressed into his hands. Under her guidance he filled a small cup with water, adding pinches of powders and careful drops of liquid as she dictated. 

‘There,’ she said finally, as he swirled the cup gently to make sure the contents were properly mixed. ‘That is as potent a pain draft as I can make with these ingredients.’

‘Will it work quickly?’ asked Thorin, passing the cup over. 

‘Hopefully,’ nodded the elf, taking a small sniff and grimacing in disgust. ‘But I warn you, it will also make me drowsy.’ She tilted her head back and knocked the drink down in a single gulp, shuddering as she replaced the cup in Thorin’s hand. 

‘It appears I am being given a taste of my own medicine,’ she muttered, a wry smile flickering over her features. ‘I seem to remember a certain dwarf king complaining loudly about the foul taste of a similar concoction.’ 

Thorin chuckled softly. ‘Aye, I remember that too.’ 

She paused, looking at him fondly. ‘We’ve come a long way since then,’ she said. ‘A very long way, my love.’ 

‘That is true.’ He shook his head, coming to stand before her. Sitting on the side of the bed, she was at the same height as he, and he was able to cup her face and look directly into her eyes. ‘I missed you so much,’ he said quietly, not bothering to conceal the tremor that shook his voice. ‘During the long days and empty nights in Ered Luin. I missed you so much that I feared my heart might break.’ 

‘Do not speak of such things,’ she replied swiftly, reaching up to touch his cheek tenderly. ‘We are here, now, together. We may have lost each other, for a time; but what matters is that we have found one another again, even through the darkness that dogs our steps.’ 

‘Aye,’ he nodded fiercely. ‘And I will fight to keep it that way.’ His gaze dropped back down to the dark stain on her tunic. ‘The water should be warmed by now,’ he added. ‘Are you still in much pain?’ 

Ithilrian shifted and winced. ‘Only a little, and that will fade.’ 

‘Good.’ He stepped away from her, pouring the warm water into a shallow bowl and readying a cloth. ‘You said I would need to clean the wound.’ 

‘I did.’ Ithilrian nodded, reaching for the ties that held her tunic closed, fumbling to unlace them with one hand. 

‘Allow me.’ Thorin put the bowl on the floor. ‘Don’t strain your shoulder, Ithilrian. Let me help.’ 

She shook her head irritably. ‘All right.’ She dropped her hand, allowing him to begin unlacing the neck of her shirt with nimble fingers. She swallowed hard, fighting the waves of sensation that rippled through her whenever his fingertips brushed against her skin.

‘Your clothes are damp,’ he said, his hands pausing in their movement. He reached down to touch her sleeve.

‘I did take an unplanned dip in the river earlier,’ she reminded him drily. 

Thorin frowned. ‘You should have already changed into something else,’ he muttered, his fingers resuming their task with renewed haste. ‘You have been sitting in wet, cold clothing for well over an hour. You’ll catch a chill, and get sick. There must be some dry clothes somewhere that you can wear for a bit.’ 

She laughed softly. ‘You forget Thorin, that I am one of the Elder Folk. We do not fall sick, and catch mortal ills in the same way that humans, hobbits and dwarves might do. Still, I thank you for the thought.’ 

‘Hmpf.’ Thorin scowled, concern still furrowing his brow as he worked his way down the lacings of her tunic. ‘Be that as it may, I will take no chances with you Ithilrian, or with your health. I will get you out of these damp clothes by any means necessary.’ 

‘By _any_ means, my lord Thorin?’ she replied softly, gazing at him through half-closed lashes. His fingers were leaving a warming trail down the length of her body. She smiled as his hands paused in their work once again, noting the tremor that seemed to shake him at her words. 

‘By any means,’ he echoed, dipping his head to reply, his voice dropping to a silken rumble that sent a shiver of anticipation through her. 

‘Then I look forward to it,’ she replied quietly, catching his eye and holding it. ‘For you are surely more potent a distraction than any pain tonic, Thorin. To have you so close, to feel your touch on my skin…’ 

‘Ithilrian,’ said Thorin gently, as the elf reached up to run her fingers through his hair, pulling him closer. ‘Wait. You must let me tend to your injury.’ 

‘And I am doing so,’ she replied softly. ‘I am also using you to distract myself from the pain, _a'maelamin._ Do you object?’ 

Thorin smiled ruefully. ‘Not as long as it works.’ His hands drifted over her shoulder, carefully lifting her torn tunic away from the wound. The fabric was stiff with clotting blood, and parts of it had stuck to her skin. She hissed in pain as he prized the material away, and a fresh trickle of blood began to flow, bright crimson against the darker stains. ‘I’m sorry,’ he muttered. 

‘It doesn’t matter,’ she replied, shifting slightly. ‘I shall need your help to get this over my head,’ she added, tugging impatiently at one side of the tunic with her uninjured arm. 

‘Lower your arm,’ he replied, taking a firm grasp of the hem before pulling the thin material over her head, trying to ignore how his hands shook when he realized that all she was wearing underneath was a swathe of dark cloth bound tightly around her breasts. His mouth grew dry at the sight of the creamy expanse of skin suddenly exposed to him; the taut line of muscle in her abdomen, the soft swell of flesh beneath the concealing band. 

‘Durin’s beard,’ he swore softly, feeling a blush rushing into his cheeks. ‘Where is that blasted cloth and bowl?’ he muttered, turning away and scowling. 

‘Right where you left it, my heart,’ replied Ithilrian mildly, her voice low and laced with amusement. ‘Unless it has somehow managed to grow legs, and wander away by itself.’ 

‘I wouldn’t be surprised if it had,’ grumbled Thorin, testing the temperature of the water, and adding a little more from the heated kettle. ‘Especially if we were still in Mirkwood,’ he added vehemently. ‘That confounded forest has all manner of unnatural things in it.’ He dipped the cloth into the warm water before approaching Ithilrian once more. ‘This will hurt,’ he said bluntly, eyeing the mess of blood that covered her shoulder and upper arm.

‘Don’t concern yourself,’ Ithilrian replied. ‘I can feel the pain tonic working. It will not hurt as much as you suspect.’ 

‘Very well.’ Thorin took a deep breath before bringing up the cloth to dab carefully at her shoulder. It was a slow process. Despite what she had told him, he was reluctant to press too firmly and cause her pain; so he kept his touch as gentle as possible, steadying her with his hand on her other shoulder, while the other coaxed away the cracked and dried blood from her skin, finally revealing the full extent of her injuries. 

She had been lucky. Azog had only caught her a glancing blow. The viciously spiked prongs on the end of his mace had torn three long, ragged cuts, stretching over the ball of her shoulder and partway down her bicep. Already the flesh around was beginning to bruise, darkening to an unpleasant purplish shade. He dabbed lightly at the wounds. Thankfully, they did not appear to be poisoned. 

‘There we go,’ he said eventually, wringing out the cloth, trying to ignore how bright and red the water had become. ‘It’s clean, I think. Are you okay? What should I do now?’ 

‘I’m fine, Thorin. Take this,’ she replied, handing him a small pad of cloth. ‘Press it over the wound. Then use this bandage to wrap around and secure it.’ She released a small, soft sigh, barely even registering the pain as she watched Thorin work. His brow was furrowed with concentration as he wrapped the length of pale cotton firmly around her shoulder and upper arm. The sight of him so close, the feel of his hands on her bare skin, was making something bright and insistent uncoil at the base of her spine. She could not stop looking at him, as if noticing anew the burnished beauty of his skin in the firelight; the broad curve of his shoulder; the gleaming darkness of his raven hair. Desire for him bloomed hotly within her, thrumming through her veins like sweet wine.

‘There. All done.’ Thorin secured the bandage neatly, his countenance smoothing and a smile appearing as he surveyed his handiwork. 

‘Thorin,’ she breathed, feeling her breast beginning to rise and fall as her pulse quickened and her breathing became swifter and shallower. He raised his head to look at her, his blue eyes darkening when he caught the intensity of her gaze. She raised one hand to draw him close, pulling him into a kiss that began gentle and chaste, only to swiftly deepen into something so passionate that she trembled against him.

‘Ithilrian?’ he murmured hoarsely, running a tentative hand down her side, halting when he felt her tremble again. ‘Are you…?’ he hesitated. ‘Does this mean…?’ 

‘Yes,’ she breathed, pulling him close. ‘I am ready for you, my heart.’ She reached for his hands, placing them upon her waist, noticing the tremor that ran through him as she did so. ‘Are you all right?’ she asked softly. ‘Do you wish to bond with me, _veleth nîn?_ I will wait, if you prefer.’ 

‘No.’ Thorin leaned forwards, pushing up against her, pressing his mouth to hers in a fierce, desperate kiss. ‘No, I do not want to wait,’ he murmured, pulling away and resting his forehead briefly against hers. ‘Not for all the gold in Erebor would I deny you,’ he added, his voice a hoarse rumble. ‘Not even if Smaug himself flew down upon us would I leave your side tonight.’ He ran his fingers over her skin once more, leaning in to kiss her slowly, his tongue a gentle question against her mouth. She sighed softly and leaned in to the kiss, tangling her fingers through his mane of silver-streaked hair, pulling him closer. He inhaled sharply before pressing back against her, kissing her deeply, possessively, pulling her towards him until they were both pressed tightly against one another, his hands locked around her waist. 

‘My silver lady,’ he murmured when they drew apart. ‘How I have longed for this. For you.’ 

‘Then let us waste no more time,’ she replied softly. ‘My skin is burning for your touch, Thorin. My heart is calling to yours. Can you not feel it?’ 

‘I can,’ he said hoarsely, pressing a hand over his own heart, before resting it lightly against hers. She could feel the warmth of his skin even through the cloth that bound her breasts. ‘I want you, Ithilrian,’ he murmured. ‘I want to feel your skin on mine, hear you sigh beneath me, to taste you as deeply as I may.’

‘Then do so,’ she whispered. ‘Hold nothing back, my heart. Let our joining begin.’ He met her gaze, feeling his excitement rising at the sight of her eyes. Her pale grey gaze was changing, darkening with desire, her pupils visibly dilating as she gazed upon him. Slowly her lips parted, rosy pink and glistening, seeming to call to him, to invite him to take, to taste. As if in a dream he leaned against her, feeling the rise and fall of her ribcage against his chest, the press of her breasts even through his clothing. It was too much for him to bear. He reached for her, taking her mouth, devouring it, groaning with anticipation as she reciprocated. Her lips moved against his as though she was pouring sweet fire into him, and his desire blossomed into something bright and hot and urgent; so much so that he gasped against her mouth, taken aback by the sheer ferocity of the feeling, his hunger for her surging into a fierce, desperate need. His hands shook with the strength of it, and for a moment he was almost afraid; before pulling back, looking into her eyes once more, and seeing the same fervent desire rising within her too. 

Her hands moved swiftly over his torso, tugging at his coat, loosening the laces of his tunic. It was the work of a moment for him to remove them both, casting them aside, so that he could finally feel her against his bare skin. A low groan tore from his throat: for when he pulled her close to him she seemed to have become a creature of fire, the heat of her body searing his skin, her every touch a haunting brand, marking him invisibly. His hands shook with the intensity of it; with the desperate hunger for more.

‘Do you feel that?’ he managed to gasp, his head at her neck, pressing warm wet kisses to her throat. ‘Like fire between us?’ 

‘I do,’ she murmured softly. He felt her pulse quiver and jump as he kissed her neck. ‘It is the joining, Thorin. If you can feel it too, then it has truly begun.’ 

‘So this is what you meant before,’ he murmured wonderingly, smoothing his hands over her waist and feeling her shudder appreciatively. ‘I didn’t know. I had thought that the bonding you spoke of simply meant… well, just… sex.’ 

‘Just?’ Ithilrian paused, tracing delicate patterns over his shoulder-blades with her fingertips, making him shudder and groan in delight. ‘Thorin, there is nothing _just_ about what we are about to do, for me or my people.’

‘I am beginning to see why,’ Thorin managed to say, shaking his head slightly and touching his own chest in wonderment. ‘I feel like metal in a furnace, Ithilrian. Your touch, your skin, burns me like the hottest of flames. Beneath your fingers I am like white-hot iron, pliant beneath the heat of your caresses, ready to be forged anew.’ 

Ithilrian smiled, nuzzling her face into his hair and inhaling his smoky, masculine scent. ‘I feel the same,’ she whispered. ‘Your hands are tracing patterns on my skin that have etched themselves forever beneath the surface.’ She pulled back, her eyes bright, pulling herself properly onto the bed, lifting up her legs to work at the lacings of her boots. Quickly, Thorin did the same, fumbling with the heavy metal clasps before kicking them into a corner. 

He barely had time to turn before Ithilrian had reached for him again, pulling him towards the edge of the mattress. She took his hands in hers, showing him the intricate clasp that held the swathe of cloth in place. His fingers trembled as he undid it, his breath becoming short as he unwound the length of dark fabric from around her torso, revealing the fullness of her breasts. A fresh wave of desire crashed over him as he stared, unable for the moment to do anything more, drinking in the sight: the soft swell of them, their fullness, the dusky pink nipples that tipped them like tiny rosebuds, pert and inviting in the flickering firelight. The breath hitched in his throat as he reached for her, brushing his fingers tenderly over the pale skin, before cupping both breasts in his hands, cradling them like the most precious objects imaginable. The slight weight of them in his palms was enough to make his already swollen erection strain at the confines of his breeches. A soft sigh slipped from Ithilrian’s lips as she leaned forwards into his touch; and at that, he could no longer contain himself. He surged forwards to kiss her fiercely, climbing up on the bed beside her, growling low in the back of his throat before pulling himself on top of her, straddling her stomach as he dropped his head to kiss her again. He reveled in the heat of her skin as he kissed his way down the column of her throat, over the sharp jut of her collarbone, and onto the mound of her breasts, pressing her down flat against the mattress as he did so. She fell backwards willingly, her hair splayed around her in a shining silver spread, her eyes still dark with lust as he bent his head to her breast, placing an open-mouthed kiss to her nipple that drew a soft gasp from her lips. He felt her shudder and writhe beneath him as he pressed his mouth to her again, nuzzling the soft flesh with his nose before suckling gently, groaning in anticipation as he felt her nipple tighten and stiffen beneath his tongue. He transferred his attentions to her other breast, feeling his arousal pressing hard against his smallclothes as he licked, sucked, and nuzzled at the tender flesh newly revealed to him, delighting in every fresh gasp and sigh that he drew from her lips. 

‘Thorin, Thorin, stop!’ she gasped, arching her back and shivering, the words faltering from her lips. ‘Thorin, please, you must stop now or I will come undone!’ 

‘Then do so,’ he growled, dropping his head and kissing her once more.

‘No, you mustn’t,’ she groaned, writhing beneath him again. ‘I don’t want to… not alone. Not without you. I want, I need, us to come together, Thorin, please.’ 

He paused, raising his head, recognizing the note of desperation in her voice even through the haze of lust that had descended upon him. ‘Truly?’ he asked, lowering himself so that his torso covered hers, feeling the soft press of her breasts against his skin, gathering her into his chest carefully. ‘I want to take time to pleasure you Ithilrian,’ he murmured. ‘I want to love you with my hands, my mouth, everything: to worship you. I would make you see stars again and again, until your eyes rolled back and you were quaking from the sheer pleasure of it, before I came into you.’ His voice was hoarse with desire as he looked into her eyes, finding the same desperate need reflected in the unfamiliar dark gaze that stared back at him.

‘There will be time for that,’ Ithilrian replied breathlessly, reaching up to caress his cheek with gentle tenderness. ‘But this first time, this feeling, is important. Can you not still feel the fire between us? These touches are burning and binding us, even as we speak.’ 

‘Yes,’ muttered Thorin, another wave of desire crashing over him at the silken sound of her voice in his ear. He bent to kiss the hollow of her throat, reveling in the scorching heat of it. ‘Yes, I can feel it.’ 

‘That is why this is not simply bed sport,’ Ithilrian replied softly. ‘This is the last stage of our bonding, Thorin. When it happens… when it comes… I need it to happen to us together.’ 

‘Of course.’ Thorin nuzzled her throat again, before raising his head and kissing her gently on both cheeks. ‘Forgive me, my heart. I was carried away by the sight of you, the sounds of your pleasure. You are intoxicating beyond belief.’ 

‘As are you,’ she replied, gazing up at him. ‘Have you any idea what you do to me, Thorin? I am molten beneath your touch. Heart and mind, body and soul. Yours.’ 

‘Yours too,’ he nodded, pressing kisses to her neck once more, with gradually increasing fervor. ‘I could spend days doing this,’ he murmured, burying his nose in her silken hair, breathing in the scent of honeysuckle. ‘Weeks, even. Months. I want an entire lifetime to explore you, Ithilrian. I want to touch, to know every part of you.’ He moved his head upwards, pressing a light kiss to the shell of her ear before suckling gently at the delicately pointed tip, drawing back in surprise as a high-pitched moan tore from Ithilrian’s throat and she bucked and writhed beneath him. 

‘Thorin,’ she gasped, her head lolling back, her eyes gazing up at him beseechingly. ‘Thorin, I want you. I need you, now. Come to me.’ 

‘I will,’ he replied hoarsely, feeling his erection straining for release, heavy and almost painfully swollen at the desperation in her plea. ‘And I shall remember that reaction,’ he muttered to himself as he shuffled back, lifting himself off her torso and plucking at the laces of his breeches, pushing them away with unseemly haste, leaving only his smallclothes remaining. He turned back towards her, pushing her wounded arm gently to one side as he busied himself with the lacings on her leggings. ‘May I?’ he asked softly, seeking her consent before slipping his fingers into the waistband and sliding them off with ease, marveling at how long her legs were as he did so. He ran one hand up the entire length of one, fingers ghosting over the delicate ankle bone, trailing over the taut, smooth muscle of her calf, pressing more firmly at the lean musculature of her slender thigh as he neared her hip, fingers brushing lightly over the dark fabric of her smallclothes. He glanced up at her questioningly. Her slight nod was the only encouragement he needed. He slid them down and cast them aside, catching his breath at the sight of her lying utterly bare before him, her skin seeming to glimmer faintly like the light of a distant star. His heart was pounding frantically as he moved tentatively towards her again, suddenly almost afraid to touch her, as though such loveliness could be nothing more than a dream: something that would vanish the moment he tried to grasp it. 

‘Thorin,’ she said softly, seeming to read some of his tumbling thoughts. ‘Do not be afraid.’ 

‘I’m sorry.’ Thorin shook his head wonderingly. ‘I had hoped… but never thought that we would... that you might actually want _me,_ of all people.’ He moved swiftly forwards, pressing a fierce, desperate kiss to her mouth, his breath coming in heaving gasps as a tremor of emotion shook him to the core. He felt her hands upon him, soothing him, and allowed himself to melt into her embrace as she deepened the kiss, passion flaming hot and heady within him as her hands dug into the waistband of his smallclothes. She tugged lightly, sliding them down his muscular legs, and he shifted slightly to allow her to remove them completely, groaning as she freed his erection from its confines, allowing it to stand proud, almost flush against his belly as he pressed himself against her. For a moment he felt almost shy, reluctant to bare himself entirely to her eyes; before he felt her gentle hand on his shaft, curling around the vulnerable skin in a long, soothing stroke that had him keening softly into her neck. 

‘Thorin,’ she murmured. ‘Thorin, my heart, my love. Let me look at you.’ 

He did as she asked, pulling back, kneeling on the bed before her as she propped herself up on her elbows, allowing her gaze to roam over every inch of his body. 

‘You are so beautiful,’ she whispered. Her eyes swept over his broadly muscled chest, taking in the raw strength in his powerful shoulders and arms, the flex and twist of his abdomen, the fine spread of dark hair on his chest, which tapered into a narrow line leading down to his groin, where his erection stood proudly, the vulnerable skin pale and smooth, the tip glistening with silent urgency. 

‘So very beautiful,’ she repeated, speaking as one in a daze. ‘Truly, I have been blessed to have found you.’ She reached out to caress him, running gentle fingers over his chest and abdomen, tracing the silvery lines of ancient battle scars. Her voice shook with emotion, and Thorin was shocked to see that her eyes were shining with unshed tears. ‘Come to me, my love,’ she murmured. ‘Join with me.’

Thorin hesitated, glancing down at her slender frame and narrow hips. ‘It will hurt you,’ he warned her quietly. ‘I will cause you pain.’ He watched her eyes flicker down to his swollen girth. ‘I can help,’ he added softly, leaning in and brushing a soft kiss against her breast. ‘Trust me, Ithilrian?’ 

‘Always,’ she replied, arcing beautifully into his touch. He gathered her into his arms once more and laid her tenderly upon the bed, noting again how very light she was; how easily he could pick her up. He knelt beside her, pressing gentle kisses to her navel as one hand trailed down towards the smooth pale flesh at the apex of her thighs, pushing her legs gently apart. 

‘Trust me,’ he murmured again, as her breathing hitched and quickened. He trailed his fingers delicately over the folds of her flesh, stifling a groan of longing when he found her already slick and ready for him. He pressed upwards tentatively, pushing a single finger upwards into her warm wet heat, clenching his teeth at the soft cry that fell from her lips. She was so tight around him, inner muscles clenched, tense and quivering. 

‘Relax, my heart,’ he said softly, using his other hand to stroke up and down the length of her legs. ‘You must relax. Your body is too tense.’ 

‘I cannot,’ she gasped. The feel of him touching a part of her that nobody had ever come close to before was sending a flood of sensations through her. She gasped as wave after wave of pleasure broke over her, keening softly as he began to move his hand in shallow, gentle strokes. The feeling of something moving inside her, back and forth, over and over, was bewildering in its intensity. She shuddered and gasped as he added a second finger, feeling the stretch and quiver of her inner muscles as he kept up the slow, gentle pace, allowing her to become accustomed to the sensation. He bit back another groan, trying desperately not to imagine what the flex of her muscles would feel like once he was actually inside her, for fear of spending prematurely on the bed like an untried youth. 

‘Are you okay?’ he asked, his breath coming in ragged gasps from the effort of maintaining control. ‘Are you in pain?’

‘No,’ she panted. ‘No.’ He groaned again as she clenched around him once more. ‘Thorin, I want… I need…’ 

‘I know.’ He shook his head, struggling to control his breathing as he slipped his fingers out of her, swallowing hard at the sweet, musky scent that came with them. ‘Breathe, my love,’ he whispered, pushing her legs aside and positioning himself between them. ‘If it hurts, don’t tense up. Try to relax, and breathe out.’ 

He held onto her hip and pressed himself against her entrance, running a single finger over the swollen bud of nerves just above, grunting in surprise as a shiver ran through her and she bucked upwards with a sharp gasp. The sudden movement snapped her hips forward unexpectedly. There was a moment of brief resistance; but before he could pull back she had taken the entire length of him inside her, and he was sheathed up to the hilt in her hot, tight wetness. The breath caught in his throat as she cried out, her body arcing up off the mattress, her breathing coming in shallow, ragged pants as her head lolled back and her hands clenched around his wrists. 

‘Ithilrian,’ he gasped, gritting his teeth, willing himself to hold still. ‘Are you all right?’ 

‘I… I…’ she shook her head, seeming to have lost all power of speech. Her breathing was fast and irregular. The sudden presence of the full length and girth of Thorin inside her had almost sent her jolting right off the bed. She gritted her teeth, willing herself to be calm, to relax against him; to allow her muscles to stretch and adjust. ‘I’m fine,’ she managed to say after a moment, raising her head and smiling, wanting to dispel the look of concern on Thorin’s face. ‘Truly, my love.’ She moved slightly, rocking gently up against him. Thorin bent his head as a low, guttural moan fell from his lips. 

‘I love you,’ he whispered hoarsely. ‘I love you.’ He shifted back slightly, holding onto her hips as he thrust against her, slowly and with great care at first, then more deeply as he felt her body relaxing, drawing him in, flowering open as warm, wet heat drenched him and a series of soft, breathless cries tore from Ithilrian’s throat. Her hands reached up to grasp at him, trailing fire over his shoulders and chest as she gripped him tightly. He allowed one hand to drift downwards, towards that ripe, pink bud of nerves; and was rewarded with a shuddering moan as she clenched around him. 

‘Thorin, Thorin, I’m going to…’ she stuttered. 

‘Me too,’ he gasped, tightening his grip on her hipbone, quickening his thrusts to match her frantic gasps. 

‘Hold onto me,’ she managed to whisper, gripping his shoulders tightly, pulling herself up as her body shuddered and writhed beneath him. ‘Look at me, Thorin.’

Her eyes locked onto his, and with those final few, desperate thrusts, Thorin felt her clench and shatter around him, her muscles pulsing as wave after wave of sensation took her, tipping him over the edge as he obeyed her whispered command and gazed down at her, into her eyes, pulled irresistibly into her darkening gaze. He felt like he was falling, stars blossoming in his vision as the strength of the orgasm broke over him like a great wave, lifting his spirit up; and for a fraction of a second he felt himself drifting, awash on a wave of pleasure. For one brief, glorious moment he could see the sun, the stars, the moon: the endless stretch of time itself, the world falling away into nothing but endless night spattered with shining stars. Then, with a roaring rush, he was back; back on the bed, falling forwards as the orgasm pulsed fiercely through him, hips stuttering helplessly forwards as Ithilrian gasped and quaked beneath him, her every muscle quivering as she succumbed to the same sensations. 

He was able to maintain just enough presence of mind to fall onto his forearms, so as not to crush the fragile elf beneath his full weight. He gulped in air, gasping for breath as his heartbeat gradually began to slow. ‘Durin’s beard,’ he swore softly, pulling carefully out of her and shaking his head in bewilderment. ‘That was…’ 

‘Mmm.’ Ithilrian pulled herself upright, one hand reaching out to stroke his hair tenderly. ‘Are you all right, _a'maelamin?’_

‘That… what just happened…’ Thorin shook his head. ‘I saw something…’ 

‘Of course,’ she nodded. ‘Eternity.’ She smiled. ‘You caught a glimpse of what I see every night in my dreams, Thorin. The confines of this world fall away and we drift, up into the night, to walk among the stars.’ She smiled softly, placing a tender kiss on his forehead. ‘That you saw something too is remarkable,’ she added. ‘That, more than anything else, proves to me that you are my One, despite the fact that we are not even the same species. You are the other half of my soul.’ 

_‘Ibin abnâmulê,’_ he replied wonderingly. ‘This is a powerful magic you weave, Ithilrian. You, your touch… it’s unlike anything I’ve felt before.’ He ran a bewildered hand through his hair before reaching over for his smallclothes, pulling them back on awkwardly before leaning back against the wall, tugging a swathe of sheets up around him before holding out an arm invitingly. Ithilrian rolled over towards him willingly, stretching her full length out on the bed with a satisfied sigh, allowing him to pull her head into his lap. He ran tender fingers through her hair, trailing lovingly over her throat, down onto her bared breast. 

‘You are so beautiful,’ he said softly in her ear. ‘In the midst of your pleasure, you outshine the brightest of stars; the purest of diamonds.’ He shook his head, smiling. ‘What fine smith crafted you?’ he murmured wonderingly. ‘From what endless mine of precious metals were you hewn? For you are too bright and beautiful to be made of flesh and blood alone.’ 

She huffed softly. ‘I am no jewel, to be locked away in a gilded cage,’ she replied drowsily. ‘I am made of nothing more than flesh and blood and bone, just like you.’ 

He bent to press a kiss to her hair. ‘You sound sleepy,’ he rumbled, smiling as her eyelids fluttered. ‘You did mention earlier that the pain draft might make you drowsy.’ 

‘Mmm.’ Ithilrian nodded assent. ‘I believe it has done so, _veleth nîn._ The feel of your hands in my hair as well…’ her eyes drifted closed and she gave a low hum of satisfaction as he continued to comb gentle fingers through her silver braids. ‘That feels wonderful,’ she added. ‘But if you continue, I fear I will fall fast asleep.’ 

‘Then sleep,’ Thorin said, gazing down at her fondly. ‘It will help your body to heal.’ His fingers travelled over her braids, running lovingly over the courtship bead she still bore. ‘May I rebraid it?’ he asked, in a tentatively hushed whisper. ‘I would weave my courting braids in your hair, _amrâlimê._ I wish the world to see you as my betrothed.’

‘Of course,’ she replied softly, her eyes opening briefly to smile at him. ‘I trust you. And I shall only sleep for a little while, I believe. But at this moment, I can barely keep my eyes open.’ 

He chuckled quietly. ‘Then close them. But you should know that I find your hair utterly irresistible. You must be aware that we dwarves place a high cultural value upon hair and braiding.’ 

‘I had thought as much,’ she replied sleepily. ‘One only has to look at Gloin’s beard or Dori’s braids to realize that. They’re all so beautiful and intricate.’ 

Thorin felt his heart swelling within him. ‘I am glad you think so,’ he murmured. ‘I must admit, I have wanted to do this for a long time. I covert your hair more highly than gold; more highly than _mithril.’_ He watched her eyes drift closed again, the warmth of her trusting smile making a gentle tenderness surge through him. ‘Sleep well, my lady of twilight,’ he whispered softly. ‘Sleep well, and dream of the stars.’ 

He kept his fingers running slowly through her hair, feeling her breathing beginning to deepen and even out as sleep cast its cloak over her. He shook his head wonderingly, twining strands of her glimmering hair around his fingers. _How did I ever come to possess a treasure such as this?_ He wondered internally. His gut clenched and he winced, trying not to think about the following day, when he would be forced to leave her in Laketown and start for the Mountain alone. _Please be safe,_ he thought desperately. _Just… be safe._

He spent a long time simply sitting, running his fingers through her hair, gently unweaving the braids she had already put in, trying to memorize the sight of her sweetly sleeping in his lap, the way her hair twined and curled around his fingers like the softest strands of fine-spun silver. 

Eventually, he had unbound all that he could reach. Sighing, he prepared himself to move, hoping that she would not wake. He needed a comb, some more beads, and a bowl of warm water. He eased himself off the bed, trying not to disturb her, hoping that she would not notice: a foolish hope, he realized, as soon as he felt one slender hand wrap around his wrist. 

‘Going somewhere?’ she mumbled sleepily. 

‘To fetch my comb,’ he replied, pressing a kiss to her cheek. ‘I’ll be back in a moment.’ 

‘Very well.’ She rolled over, her head twisted round to watch as he padded over to his pack, which had been slung carelessly in a corner of the room. He glanced back at her, amused at the sleepy expression on her face. So rare was it to see her not looking completely bright and alert, that he couldn’t conceal a chuckle. 

‘Hmm?’ Ithilrian raised her brow questioningly. ‘Something amuses you?’ 

He shook his head, smiling. ‘It’s rare to see you hovering for so long between sleeping and waking. You are surprisingly adorable when you’re drowsy.’ He grinned as she huffed, wrinkling her nose in bewildered indignation. 

‘Adorable?’ she replied grumpily, yawning widely. ‘I have been called many names, by many people over the years, _veleth nîn._ But _adorable_ is not one of them.’ 

‘That’s because I would imagine few have ever had the privilege of seeing you like this,’ he replied softly, coming to stand beside the bed again, running tender fingers over her cheek, trailing them down her neck to trace the edge of the bandage on her shoulder. ‘Never have I seen you so vulnerable,’ he added quietly. ‘When I watched Azog strike you down earlier… never have I been more terrified. I feared that I had lost you forever.’

‘But you didn’t.’ Ithilrian smiled softly. ‘I am right here, Thorin. And now that we are bonded, I shall never leave you.’ She reached up to place a hand on his bare chest, just over his heart. It felt like there was a glowing jewel embedded in his flesh, just beneath his ribcage, the strength of it warming his entire body. 

‘Come _ghivashel,_ lie back for me again,’ he said softly, kissing her before pulling himself carefully up onto the bed and prodding her lightly with the comb. ‘Your hair is so beautifully long,’ he added ruefully. ‘This will likely take me all night.’ 

‘Flatterer.’ Ithilrian glanced up at him lazily, but rolled over as requested. ‘What is that for?’ she asked, noticing the bowl of warm water he kept balanced in one hand.

‘To wash the ends of your hair that got soaked in blood from your wound,’ he replied gently, pulling the last of her braids forward to show her. ‘Don’t worry. I will be careful.’ 

‘Oh.’ She frowned slightly. ‘My apologies. I had not even noticed.’ 

‘It matters not.’ He settled himself against the wall again and reached for her once more, before grabbing a pillow and placing it in his lap for her to rest her head on. She turned obligingly, facing away from him, gazing into the dimly crackling fire. She felt his hands, gently combing and soothing her, the slight splash and drip of the water as he coaxed the remnants of blood from her hair with gentle, tender care. _I could spend an eternity in this manner,_ she thought, her mind becoming drowsy once again. _If our days are to end in darkness, then at least we have had this._ She could still feel the pain tonic moving through her, dampening the sting of her injury to nothing more than a dull, persistent ache. Thorin’s hands were astonishingly gentle as he ran the comb through her long fall of hair, slowly working out any hidden knots and tangles, before weaving a slow, intricate braid along the side of her head, just above her ear. She hummed softly with pleasure as his fingers massaged her scalp, brushing over her the tender tip of her ear every now and again, as he gathered more strands to weave together. 

‘You never told me that elven ears were so sensitive,’ he murmured. She heard a faint _click_ as he finished the first braid and sealed the end with a silver bead. 

‘You did not ask,’ she replied simply, sighing softly as he ran gentle fingers up her neck and over her ear again, playing lightly with the dainty point. She felt the breath quickening in he throat as warmth began to pool inside her once again, her desire for him rising in an inexorable wave. 

‘I wonder just _how_ sensitive they are,’ said Thorin softly, bending so that his lips brushed over the shell of her ear. ‘I wonder… if I can make you come undone simply by tending to them alone.’ She could feel the delicious smoothness of his mouth and the rough silk of his beard as he nuzzled into her cheek, gliding the tip of his tongue slowly along her ear’s outer edge. She whimpered softly, and with a low chuckle he took the point between his lips, sucking gently. He kept one hand on her ribcage, holding her carefully, as she shuddered beneath him. He took his time, alternating between gentle kisses and long, lascivious licks, teasing and toying with the dainty tip until with a soft moan she came undone, cresting the wave of her pleasure as the warm wetness of Thorin’s mouth brought her over the brink. 

‘Thorin,’ she gasped softly, her head lolling back and her eyes fluttering closed. ‘Thorin, what are you…’ 

‘Shhh,’ he whispered, delight lacing his voice as he kissed her cheek. ‘Roll over. I need to do the other side too.’ 

‘Mmmpf.’ She shivered through a wave of tiny aftershocks, Thorin’s hands warm upon her bare skin, helping her to roll so that she was lying on her other side, facing his abdomen. She breathed in deeply, reveling in his smoky masculine scent as he began to work on her second braid, his clever fingers sectioning and weaving strands of her hair with consummate ease, brushing his fingers over her other ear more often than seemed strictly necessary. She smiled into the pillow as she felt the warmth of his breath upon her neck, anticipating what he was about to do. She was not disappointed. His tongue flicked out, lavishing the same care and attention upon her other ear, as his fingers still worked at the braid; and once again she felt her breathing grow ragged, wondering at how he was able to draw such a carnal reaction from her again and again. She clenched her fists, burrowing into the pillow with a muffled groan as he took the tender point of her ear between his teeth, tugging gently before soothing it once more with gentle kisses. She felt herself grow wet for him, her body crying out for more, for deeper caresses; as another wave of bliss rolled over her, pitching her into a sea of pleasure with a low, faint cry.

‘Another one?’ Thorin’s voice was husky, a low velvet rumble beside her as she trembled through the aftershocks. _‘Sanghivasha._ My perfect treasure.’ Even despite the pillow on his lap, Ithilrian could feel him growing hard for her again, his desire rising even as she trembled for him. 

‘Come to me Thorin, _a'maelamin,_ my heart of hearts,’ she whispered. 

‘Not yet,’ he murmured in her ear, his voice thrumming through her like midnight thunder among the mountains. ‘I have one more braid to do, my love.’ 

‘Then hurry,’ she replied, shaking herself fully awake as he chuckled, waggling the comb at her warningly as she tried to rise. 

‘Lie on your belly for me?’ he asked softly. He opened his palm, showing her the courting bead that he had yet to clasp into her hair. ‘I want the world to know that you are mine, _kurdûnuh.’_

She acquiesced, rolling over to lie flat, feeling his warm weight descend upon her as he straddled her, running the comb carefully through her hair once more, pulling the free strands back from the front of her head. She felt the press of his arousal against the small of her back, hot and heavy and insistent as his fingers worked carefully, weaving another braid at the crown of her head, a thicker one to fall down the center of her spine, in the same manner that she had done when he’d first offered her the bead. 

‘There,’ he said quietly, as she heard the gentle click of the bead clasping securely over the end of her braid. ‘It is done.’ He rain gentle hands up her back, fingers pressing along the line of her spine, smoothing over her shoulder blades. She groaned softly in delight, arching into his hands. She felt, rather than heard, the low rumble of his laughter as it shivered through her. 

‘You respond so beautifully to my touch,’ he murmured, leaning forwards to trail his fingers over her shoulders and down the side of her ribcage. He shifted slightly, levering himself away from her, encouraging her to turn over, running his hands tenderly over her breasts as she did so, leaning down to nuzzle at the pliant flesh with his nose before pressing several lingering, reverent kisses to her skin. ‘Is there anything I can do for you?’ he asked softly. ‘Are you in pain anywhere? Or is there anything further that we should do, to celebrate the forming of these bonds of ours, Ithilrian?’ 

She chuckled lightly, running gentle fingers over the line of his bicep. ‘There is something we probably should have done,’ she told him, amusement lacing her words as she gazed fondly up at him. ‘A ceremony of sorts, which usually comes just before or immediately after.’

‘Oh?’ He leant forwards to press another warm, wet kiss against her breast. 

She grinned up at the ceiling. ‘Indeed. It’s called a wedding, Thorin. Perhaps you are familiar with the term?’ She laughed outright as she felt his shoulders stiffen, his fingers halting in their slow slide towards the sheets that still tangled around her hips. 

‘What?’ He sat up, startled, gazing at her in shock. ‘What do you mean?’ His blue eyes widened anxiously. ‘Then… are elves like humans, who have to wait till they are wed before joining like this? I had thought… was I wrong? Ithilrian, have I done you a grave dishonor?’ His voice rose nervously. ‘Why are you still laughing?’ he added in frustration. ‘Ithilrian, this is not funny!’ 

‘I’m sorry, my love,’ she chuckled, stilling her mirth and gazing up at him. ‘I think perhaps we are in the midst of a cultural misunderstanding.’ She pulled herself up on her elbows, placing a light kiss on his nose. ‘I suppose such things are inevitable,’ she added. ‘We are so very different, Thorin.’

‘That is true,’ huffed the dwarf. ‘Yet still, I cannot understand what it is that so amuses you.’ 

‘Then I shall tell you,’ she replied quietly. ‘As far as I can gather, a wedding between dwarves would be similar in principle to a human one, yes? A formal binding between two people, an exchange of vows in front of witnesses, to seal one another together for life.’ 

‘Yes, that is the bones of it,’ replied Thorin, frowning in bewilderment. ‘Our ceremonies are very solemn affairs, usually. There are an awful lot of formalities to go through before we would be considered legally wed.’ 

‘Then that is where the main difference lies,’ grinned Ithilrian. ‘A wedding between my people is nothing like that. The ceremony itself is a joyful one, designed to celebrate the love between two people. It does not act as the formal bond that ties them together. That is done alone, and in private. Just as we have done.’ 

‘What?’ Thorin hesitated, understanding suddenly surging through him. ‘Wait,’ he added slowly. ‘Ithilrian, are we _married?_ Did I just marry you, and not even realize?’ He shook his head in bewilderment as the elf beneath him burst out laughing once more. ‘You are beyond belief,’ he muttered, leaning down to take her mouth in a fierce kiss.

‘In the same way that I was betrothed to you for days, and had no idea? Yes, my love.’ Ithilrian chuckled. ‘I am sorry,’ she added. ‘I should have made myself clearer before. I truly had no idea that you did not understand the full implications of our joining.’

‘Well, I think I understand well enough now,’ murmured Thorin. ‘Wife,’ he said softly, wondering at the ease with which the word slipped from his lips. ‘Wife.’

‘Husband,’ she replied, her laughter changing into a smile so joyful, so tender, that the breath caught in his throat and momentary tears stung his eyes. ‘Husband. At least, to my folk, that is what you are to me now,’ she added. ‘I am aware that your people will not see us as such.’ She sighed. ‘Thorin, if you do not want to speak of this to the others… then I shall understand. I am happy to wait, to wed you according to your customs, before you name me wife in front of the Company.’ 

‘Hmm.’ Thorin frowned. ‘I shall think on it. Perhaps you are right, and it is best that this is kept between us, for now.’ He smiled ruefully. ‘If nothing else, Fili and Kili will find it hilarious when they eventually find out,’ he added fondly.

‘Oh, by the Valar,’ groaned Ithilrian, covering her mouth with her hand and laughing. ‘They will tease me mercilessly, Thorin.’ 

‘They’ll tease me even more,’ promised Thorin. ‘That I managed to marry you, and not even realize I was doing it at the time? I believe Kili’s eyes will fall right out of his head when he finds out. They will talk of nothing else for days.’ 

Ithilrian chuckled. ‘Then let us wait, and have a formal wedding, according to the laws of your kin. I do not mind. But perhaps we can incorporate some elven elements into it? We dearly love a good celebration. Besides, we have our own rites and rituals, blessings that are given, songs that are sung, and dances. I always did love the dancing,’ she added wistfully. 

‘It will certainly be a first,’ muttered Thorin, leaning down to kiss her forehead with gentle care. ‘Once our quest is over… once Erebor is ours again…’ he hesitated, a darkness seeming to pass across his face at the thought. ‘Erebor,’ he murmured softly. ‘The shadow of the mountain lies above us even now, Ithilrian. I saw it briefly through the mist, as we travelled downriver into Laketown.’ He hung his head, looking down at her wide blue eyes. ‘Ithilrian… do you believe in fate?’ he asked her quietly. 

‘I do,’ she replied, pushing herself back up onto her elbows and looking at him curiously. ‘I believe that we did not meet by mere chance, Thorin Oakenshield.’ 

‘So do I,’ muttered Thorin. ‘And I do not know if I find that a comfort, or a fresh terror. Come morning, I must leave you; leave this place, to find a way into the mountain that has long haunted my dreams, to face… whatever lies within.’ He groaned quietly and leaned forwards, burying his head in her neck. ‘I… do not know if I am ready,’ he murmured hollowly. ‘I do not know, Ithilrian, if I am worthy of the fate that seems to be laid out before me. To take back Erebor… to become King once more...’ He faltered, the words choking off as a dry sob wracked his body. Ithilrian felt her heart twist painfully in her chest at the quiet desperation his words held. 

‘It is too much,’ he told her, slowly and painfully, as though the confession was being drawn forcibly out of him. Still he could not look at her, keeping his face buried in her starlight hair. ‘I am afraid, Ithilrian,’ he admitted hoarsely. ‘I am afraid of what will come to pass if I should fail. If the dragon is awakened; if something goes wrong…’ He broke off as another dry sob shuddered through him. ‘It is all on my head, _sanghivasha._ I will be the one to blame.’ His breath was coming shallowly, in ragged gasps as Ithilrian ran soothing hands over his shoulders and back, allowing him to press himself as closely to her as he could, feeling the full weight and breadth of his chest against her slender frame. 

‘Perhaps it has been too long,’ he murmured finally. ‘Perhaps I have spent so much of my life in exile, that I have forgotten how to be a true King. Perhaps Lord Elrond was right, and we should never have begun this foolish venture.’ 

‘Thorin,’ whispered Ithilrian painfully, holding him tightly as she could, trying to dispel the terror that she felt leeching out of him. ‘Thorin, only the mad or the stupid fear nothing. You are neither. It is all right to be afraid, my heart. You possess more bravery than I have seen in many men, who would claim to be seasoned warriors.’ 

‘Not in this,’ laughed Thorin hollowly, finally managing to pull himself back from the shelter of her hair, gazing at her with eyes so deep a blue, filled with so much anguish, that she felt her heart twist painfully within her chest. ‘In this I am frightened, Ithilrian. I am so frightened that I can feel myself shaking when I think of it. There is not just fear of Smaug, but…’ His voice trailed off and he shook his head bitterly. 

‘What is it?’ Ithilrian said softly, trailing gentle fingers over his shoulders, her voice low and soothing, weaving a gentle spell around him, calming his fraying nerves. ‘Tell me, my heart.’ 

‘The dragon sickness,’ he replied, his voice cracking, barely above a whisper. ‘The lust for gold which is the curse of my bloodline. It drove my grandfather mad. Before Erebor fell I watched him lose himself by inches, his mind spiraling out of control, until there was barely anything left of the dwarf I once called King.’ He drew a deep, shuddering breath, no longer even trying to halt the hot, stinging tears that flooded down his cheeks. ‘It is an insidious madness, Ithilrian,’ he whispered. ‘I can remember the hours, the days that Thror spent in the treasury, counting the coin and gold within, the tally of his wealth becoming dearer to him than the name of his own son; valuing cold jewels and bright metals above the smiles and laughter of his grandchildren.’ 

Thorin’s voice cracked, a sob rattling his chest as he gazed at her, his voice breaking but his gaze steady. ‘I do not want to become my grandfather,’ he said slowly. ‘I do not wish to hoard wealth, to become so lost in the gold sickness that I forget the names of my nephews; the name of my wife.’ He reached out to run a tender thumb across her fragile cheekbone, wiping away the tears that had fallen from his eyes and onto her skin, where they glimmered like shards of fresh-cut diamond. 

‘I see now why you fear the past,’ murmured Ithilrian softly. ‘But you are strong, Thorin. I can see the strength, the courage that lies within you. You are not the same as your ancestors. You are, among many other things, a good man.’ 

He shook his head slowly. ‘The same blood flows in my veins,’ he replied in a cracked, sorrowful whisper. ‘The same weakness.’ 

‘Your time will come,’ she whispered, pulling herself up on one elbow and caressing his cheek with trembling fingers. ‘You will face the same evil, and you will defeat it.’ She gazed deeply into his eyes, his beauty shining all the brighter for the raw emotion in his face; for how tender and vulnerable she could see that he truly was, beneath his gruff façade. _‘A si i-dhúath ú-orthor, Thorin,’_ she murmured, her eyes filling with tears. _‘Ú or le, a ú or nin._ You are not your grandfather. You are not bound to his fate.’

She cupped his cheek, drawing him close to her, so that he was forced to look directly into her eyes, within the shadows of her hair. ‘I believe in you, Thorin Oakenshield,’ she told him softly. ‘I believe you have the strength to overcome this peril. But it is not a blind faith that I carry. It is a faith based upon you: upon what I have seen within your heart.’ She raised one hand to press it over his chest, feeling the strong, steady beat within. ‘It would be foolish to deny that you are indeed in peril,’ she whispered. ‘It is, in part, one of the reasons I wish you were not going to the mountain without me. The dragon sickness will seek to corrupt you, as it has so many others before. But I _know_ you, Thorin. I believe you have the strength of will to fight it. To shake off its grasp, victorious, sound in mind, having conquered your greatest fear.’ She pressed a soft kiss to his brow before raising his hand to her breast, holding it over her heart. ‘If you trust nothing else, trust this,’ she murmured. ‘Trust us.’ 

‘I do,’ replied Thorin, his voice low and shaking with emotion. ‘I trust you, Ithilrian. My heart; my very soul.’ He released a shaking breath, leaning in towards her, capturing her lips in a tender, desperate kiss, trying to pour everything into it: the words he could not say, the emotions he could not name. A fierce, tender joy rose within him as he held her close. _She trusts me,_ he realized. _She does not fear the stain of madness that lies dormant in my veins. She has faith._ A shudder of emotion rippled through him and he pulled her even closer, deepening the kiss, tasting her sweetness like honey on his tongue, his passion rising swiftly as he felt the press of her bare breasts against his chest. 

_I will not let her down,_ he thought fiercely, as they fell back upon the bed together in a tangle of sheets and sweet, hot, desperate kisses. _I will not betray her trust. I will overcome the dragon sickness, even if it kills me._

~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translation Notes: 
> 
>  
> 
> Elvish:
> 
> A'maelamin = my beloved  
> Veleth nîn = my love  
> A si i-dhúath ú-orthor, Thorin. Ú or le, a ú or nin. = The shadow does not hold sway yet, Thorin. Not over you, and not over me.
> 
> Khuzdul:
> 
> Kurdûnuh = my heart  
> Sanghivasha = perfect treasure  
> Ghivashel = treasure of treasures  
> Amrâlimê = my love.


	39. Parting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thorin and Ithilrian must bid each other farewell before Thorin leaves for Erebor, leaving Ithilrian and Kili behind in Laketown.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick note: I'm afraid this is a somewhat shorter chapter than others I've posted recently. Real life has been troublesome of late. Next chapter should be back to normal, but it's taking forever. Hope this is enough to tide you folks over until then.

The dawn broke slowly. Ithilrian watched through half-lidded eyes as pale streaks of golden radiance crept over the eastern skies, banishing the lingering darkness of the starlit night. But, try as she might, Ithilrian could not shake off the darkness within her heart. She knew that within a matter of hours, Thorin would be gone. 

She glanced down, smiling faintly. During the night, the dwarf had rolled over, wrapping himself tightly around her in a tangle of crooked limbs and twisted sheets. His head was resting on her breast, the silk scruff of his beard a gentle tickle against her skin as he breathed, slowly and deeply, his face smooth and serene in slumber. 

_Would that we could stay like this forever,_ she thought sadly. _Would that the morning did not have to take him from me._ She trailed one hand through his hair with infinite gentleness. _He looks so much younger when he’s sleeping,_ her inner thought whispered. _Softer. At peace. As though the cares of the world had lifted from his shoulders, if only for a brief time._

‘Thorin,’ she whispered. His name fell from her lips like a prayer, soft yet strong, like a whisper borne on the wind. The sky grew lighter; and still she did not wake him, burning the image of her sleeping lover indelibly into her mind. She wanted nothing more than to hold onto him, to shield him, as though by the virtue of the love she bore him she could protect him from the trials that lay ahead. But she knew it was not so simple as that. She could no more stop him from entering the mountain than she could have sprouted wings and flown to the top of it. 

Eventually, he stirred. ‘Ithilrian?’ he murmured, his mouth warm against her skin. 

‘I am here,’ she replied softly. He shifted slightly, repeating her name, allowing it to linger on his lips as though he was savoring the taste. His arms tightened around her. She watched to shift and flex of his bicep and shoulder as he moved, one arm reaching up to tangle in her braids, his hand resting lightly against her cheek as he pulled himself up to nuzzle his head into the crook of her neck. 

‘What time is it?’ he mumbled. 

She hesitated. ‘Dawn is still breaking,’ she told him. ‘In an hour or so, it will be fully light.’ 

‘Then we have some time,’ he murmured. 

‘Yes,’ she replied, hoping that he was still too drowsy to notice the way her voice seemed to catch in her throat. ‘We have a little time, my love.’ 

He sighed, soft and heavy with sleep, still pressed heavily against her. ‘I wish that we had more,’ he mumbled. ‘But I cannot. Ithilrian…’ 

‘Hush,’ she whispered, smoothing one hand over his rumpled hair. ‘It’s all right, my heart. It will be all right.’ 

‘Mmm.’ He shifted his head slightly, placing a gentle kiss on the hollow of her throat. ‘My light in the darkness,’ he murmured. ‘My first star of twilight. Ever you give me hope.’ 

She shook her head slowly. _‘Ónen i-estel edain,’_ she said softly. _‘Ú-chebin anim.’_ She kissed his hair with gentle tenderness as he pulled away slowly, raising his head to look at her with eyes as blue as the depths of the sea. 

‘Always, you say these things I cannot understand,’ he grumbled mildly, a gentle smile belying his words. ‘If I find out that you have been insulting me all this time…’ 

She laughed quietly. ‘If I wished to insult you, my heart, I would do so in Westron; if only to see the look on your face.’ 

‘Hmpf.’ He grunted, levering himself up on one elbow, gazing up at her wonderingly. ‘Wife,’ he murmured, his face creasing in a slow, warm smile. ‘My wife, whose beauty outshines all the jewels beneath the earth.’ The pale dawn light caught the lines and contours of his face, illuminating his skin with a soft, golden radiance. 

‘Husband,’ she whispered softly in return, the hitch barely noticeable in her voice. ‘My husband, whose burning brightness could put the sun to shame; whose eyes hold all the depth and power and raw beauty of the Sundering Seas.’ 

Thorin shook his head, allowing his hair to fall forwards, trying and failing to hide the bashful smile that crept unbidden onto his face. ‘You flatter me,’ he muttered.

‘Perhaps.’ She kissed his forehead. ‘But that does not mean it is not true,’ she added. ‘Truly, there are no words that may do you justice.’ 

‘Now _that_ is definitely flattery,’ he mumbled, a faint flush appearing on his bearded cheeks. ‘Besides, I have never seen the sea,’ he added quietly, almost wistfully. ‘Not up close. It was sometimes possible to catch a glimpse of it, high in our settlements in Ered Luin; but even then, only on a clear day, as nothing more than a glint of sunlight on the water.’ 

Ithilrian smiled as he lowered his head, resting it once more against her breast with a contented sigh; but it was a painful smile, laced with sadness. ‘I have seen it only once,’ she told him. ‘I went to the harbor beyond the white towers. The Grey Havens, we call them. There I watched as Celebrían stepped onto the ship that would take her into the West, away from Middle Earth and its troubles. At the time I was half-mad with pain and grief, but still; I can remember the sea.’ 

Thorin’s grip tightened as he pulled himself closer to her, offering her the comfort of his warm weight as a slight shiver ran through her. ‘Tell me what it is like,’ he asked softly. 

‘The sea?’ She smiled again, exhaling a long, slow breath. ‘It is beautiful beyond measure, Thorin. Utterly vast, a great gulf of endless blue, constantly shifting and changing beneath the winds of the world. It stretched as far as my eyes could see, disappearing into a distant sunset on the blazing horizon. I shall never forget the sight of it. The white gulls flying, the gentle break of waves upon the shore… the calling.’ She paused, her eyes growing dim and hazy as the memories washed over her. _‘I Aear cân ven na mar,’_ she added softly. ‘The sea calls to us, with a voice of many whispers. Deep in the heart of all my kin is the sea-longing, which is a dangerous thing to awaken.’ 

‘The sea-longing?’ replied Thorin, pressing a soft kiss against her skin. ‘Never before have I heard of that.’ 

Ithilrian shrugged. ‘It is seldom spoken of, even amongst my own kin,’ she replied quietly. ‘The sea calls us home, Thorin. Back to the realm of our forbears: the land unstained where our souls may dwell in peace, released at last from the pain and weariness of this world. With each passing century, the call grows stronger.’ She sighed softly. ‘So many of my folk have already gone,’ she murmured. ‘There are so few of us left, Thorin. So many have died; gone to the sea.’ She smiled sadly, combing her fingers through Thorin’s mane of silver-streaked hair, its silky smoothness acting as a gentle anchor to her thoughts. ‘That is what some of my people prefer to say,’ she added softly. ‘They speak of dying as going to the sea. They feel it sounds less final than death; it speaks less of ending, of pain, of grief. Sometimes, it helps to keep despair at bay.’ 

‘Going to the sea,’ repeated Thorin quietly. ‘I shall remember it well, Ithilrian.’ 

He pulled himself upright, kissing her cheek and then her mouth, as gently and tenderly as though she was made of fine glass that might shatter beneath his touch. ‘If only there was something similar I could say,’ he murmured. ‘To ease the pain of this parting. But the sun is rising; and we must be away before long. I am running out of time.’

‘I know.’ Ithilrian groaned, leaning forwards in turn, hiding her head in his mane of midnight hair, so that he could not see the pain that creased her face at his words. ‘I detest long farewells,’ she added quietly. 

‘You have told me that before,’ Thorin replied hoarsely. ‘When we parted outside Ered Luin ten years ago, you said much the same thing.’ 

‘You remember that?’ asked Ithilrian, pulling away and looking at him with some surprise. 

‘Of course,’ he nodded seriously. ‘I will not soon forget the feeling that my entire world was darkening as I watched you walk away. I could tell you were in pain as well; yet I had no idea why. I am sorry.’ 

Ithilrian shook her head. ‘It was not your fault.’ 

‘Perhaps not. Yet my actions still caused you hurt.’ He took one of her hands and pressed it to his lips. ‘Forgive me?’ he asked her quietly. 

‘There is nothing to forgive,’ she replied, smiling gently and placing a gentle kiss on his forehead. ‘Come,’ she added, with a sad smile. ‘I can hear stirring in the house below. We would be wise to wash and dress, before one of the Company comes upstairs to check on us.’ 

‘Probably a good idea,’ nodded Thorin, pulling away from her reluctantly, his eyes never leaving her as she rose from the bed, allowing the sheets to fall away as she stood up and stretched. Her skin seemed almost to glow in the gathering strength of the sunlight. Thorin felt himself pulled forwards, almost against his will, yearning to touch her once more. He reached out, running tentative fingers down the span of her ribs, across the smooth, taut muscles in her belly, trailing over the sharp jut of her hipbone. ‘A good idea,’ he repeated, shaking his head dazedly as he fought to maintain control of himself and his thoughts. ‘This gift… the sight of you like this… it is for my eyes alone. I shall suffer no others to look upon you in this manner.’ 

‘Good,’ smiled Ithilrian mildly. ‘Yet I believe you need have no fears on that account, _a'maelamin,’_ she added, picking up her tunic and scowling in annoyance at the sight of dark stain and ripped shoulder. ‘I must see to that,’ she added under her breath. 

‘Perhaps not,’ replied Thorin, sliding from the bed and rummaging around for the breeches he had hastily discarded the night before, before coming over to where she stood and touching her arm gently, compelling her to look at him. ‘But perhaps you will permit me to worry about you just a little?’ he added beseechingly. ‘Surely, as your husband, you will allow me that.’ 

Ithilrian loosed a long, low breath. ‘Husband,’ she murmured, shaking her head slowly. ‘I fear I will not be able to call you that again for quite some time.’ 

‘True enough,’ nodded Thorin. ‘It still sounds… strange,’ he added, a faint flush appearing on his cheeks as she cast him an enquiring look, tugging up her smallclothes before picking up the discarded length of dark cloth. 

‘I know,’ she murmured. ‘But I believe that I will miss saying it, in the days that are to come.’ She stretched out the cloth before carefully wrapping it around herself, binding her breasts tightly in a thick swathe of material, flattening them against her torso. 

‘Why do you wear that?’ asked Thorin carefully, watching her with interest. ‘Last night, when you removed it, I confess to being surprised by how… full your figure was.’ He coughed lightly to cover his embarrassment, as she shot him an appraising glance. ‘Pleasantly surprised,’ he added quickly. ‘Very pleasantly surprised, if I remember rightly.’ He grinned. She huffed at him in mock annoyance, fastening the silver clasp carefully. 

‘I do not wear it for aesthetics,’ she told him. ‘I am aware that it does nothing for my figure. That’s rather the point. While wearing it, I am able to properly draw and fire a bow.’ She mimed the action, showing him how her arms were free to move, unhindered by her tightly wrapped breasts. ‘Without it, things become a little more… difficult,’ she added, with a slight smile. 

‘I see,’ Thorin nodded, understanding dawning. ‘That’s... incredibly practical of you.’ He tugged on his tunic, pulling it roughly over his head, turning the idea over in his mind as they both dressed. In far too short a time, they were ready. It was almost fully morning, the light streaming brightly in through the narrow window; and even Thorin could hear the stirrings in the house below them, as twelve dwarves and a single hobbit began to prepare for their imminent departure. Booted feet were hurrying up and down the stairs, and the savory smells of breakfast were wafting up from the downstairs kitchen. A tentative knock came at the door. 

‘Um… Miss Ithilrian?’ It was Bilbo, sounding rather awkward. ‘Are you awake?’ 

‘I am,’ she replied smoothly. ‘You may come in,’ she added. ‘The door is not locked.’ 

‘Oh. I… of course. I just didn’t want to intrude on you and…’ The door creaked open, just wide enough to admit one small, awkward-looking hobbit, shuffling his bare feet and smiling nervously. ‘Breakfast is on the table,’ he said, glancing between Thorin and Ithilrian before quickly dropping his gaze. Internally, Thorin heaved a sigh. Although they were both fully dressed, the state of the bed was a clear enough indicator of what had passed between them. He watched Bilbo’s glance flicker towards it, and a slight blush appear on his cheeks. _He knows,_ Thorin thought. _Which means that the rest of the Company will know too; very soon, if I’m any judge._

‘Thank you,’ he said aloud instead. ‘We will be down shortly.’ 

‘Right,’ nodded Bilbo, scooting backwards and smiling brightly before disappearing down the stairs. 

‘Thorin.’ Ithilrian appeared at his side, her hand resting lightly on his arm. ‘Thorin, this is likely the last private moment we shall have together for some time. We should say our farewells now, instead of...’ Her grip tightened. Thorin swallowed hard, trying to drown out the rising fear that seemed to pull inside his chest. 

‘I know.’ He loosed a low, frustrated breath. ‘If only there was something…’ The words were taking from him as Ithilrian leaned down, capturing his mouth in a deep, desperate kiss. He responded immediately, opening his mouth and allowing her to take all the she needed from him, gripping her tunic and pulling her flush against his chest. 

‘I would have gone with you to the end,’ she murmured, when they broke apart. ‘Into the very fires of the dragon’s maw.’ She tenderly stroked a single finger down his cheek and dipped her head. ‘Blessed are they who stand before the darkening night and do not falter,’ she whispered haltingly, painfully, her eyes shining with unshed tears and the words catching harshly in her throat. ‘Blessed are those who walk in the light of Varda’s stars and do not waver beneath their brightness; but who face the coming darkness with open eyes and open hearts. For there is no darkness in the Lady’s light, and nothing She has wrought that shall be lost.’ 

‘Thank you,’ mumbled Thorin, the breath hitching in his throat. ‘An old elven blessing?’ 

‘Yes.’ She sighed, resting her forehead against his for a moment. ‘May the Valar stand between you and harm, through all the empty places you must walk.’ She breathed deeply, steadying herself, squeezing his shoulders gently before releasing him and standing upright once again. ‘Do not fear for Kili,’ she added quietly. ‘He will not like being left behind; but I shall guard him well. Once his leg has healed enough to travel, we shall come to Erebor. We will find you again, Thorin. I swear it.’ 

‘I do not doubt it.’ Thorin swallowed hard, taking her hand and squeezing it tightly, keeping his fingers entwined with hers as they descended the rickety stairs, caring nothing for the knowing glances that the other dwarves exchanged as they entered the kitchen hand in hand. _Let them talk,_ Thorin thought, tightening his hold, a fierce pride blooming in his chest. _I care nothing for anybody’s gossip. She is mine, and I am hers: and I do not care if the whole of Laketown is whispering it before the day is done._

~

Once they had breakfasted, it wasn’t long before everything was packed and ready to go. The Master of Laketown had been very effusive; overly so, thought Ithilrian cynically, watching as the dwarves shouldered their new packs. She neither liked nor trusted the man. There was something oily about him; something sly and snide that she could not quite place. Luckily, he did not seem inclined to speak with her, focusing the majority of his attentions upon Thorin and Legolas instead. The woodland prince appeared to take the man’s fawning with good grace, clearly used to his overbearing manner; but she could see that Thorin was becoming increasingly irritable as the man droned on.

‘It’s not fair.’ Kili sat beside her, wrapped in an oversized fur coat, an expression of utter misery on his face. ‘Auntie, can’t you talk to him?’ he added, glancing up at her pleadingly. ‘Please, I have to go with the others! I’m strong enough to walk, I swear!’ 

‘Peace, Kili,’ she replied wearily. ‘I’m afraid I have little say in the matter. Especially as your uncle has seen fit to leave me behind as well.’ 

‘You… you’re staying too?’ he replied tentatively, his expression lifting slightly. ‘I’m sorry, I forgot you were injured as well. Uncle didn’t tell me...’ 

‘I know.’ Ithilrian shook her head irritably. She had not been present when Thorin had decided to break the news to Kili; but elven hearing being as sharp as it was, she’d overheard the entire exchange.

‘Not you,’ Thorin had told him. ‘You have to stay here, and rest. Join us when you are healed.’

‘What?’ Kili’s voice had sounded incredulous, laced with laughter as if he’d thought his uncle was joking. ‘What are you talking about? I’m coming with you!’ 

‘No.’ Thorin’s voice had been flat, cold and distant. ‘I want no arguments from you, Kili. You will remain here until you have recovered from your leg wound.’ 

‘Uncle!’ Kili’s voice was tinged with desperation. ‘Please, you can’t do this! I want to be there, when that door is opened… when we look upon the halls of our fathers! Please!’ 

‘No.’ She’d heard the dull thudding of Thorin’s boots as he’d turned and walked away. ‘I will hear no more on the matter,’ he’d added, before slamming the door. A low, anguished moan from Kili had been the only response. 

Ithilrian sighed. She knew what it had cost Thorin, to make that decision. She had seen it on his face, heard the pain in his voice when he’d told her the night before. But he showed nothing of that to Kili, becoming grim and distant instead, a figure of implacable authority. She wrapped one arm absent-mindedly around the young dwarf’s shoulders, allowing him to lean in to her for comfort. ‘It’s all right,’ she murmured softly. ‘You won’t be alone. And once your leg has healed sufficiently, we shall go to the mountain together. You will reach Erebor, Kili. I promise.’ 

‘Thanks, Auntie,’ the dwarf prince replied, his voice barely above a whisper. He kept his eyes turned down as the rest of the Company stepped awkwardly into the boats that would taken them to shore, defiantly avoiding Thorin’s glare.

‘Kili?’ called Fili from the closet boat. ‘Come on, there’s room in this one!’ 

‘M’not coming,’ mumbled Kili. ‘M’staying here. Uncle said.’ 

‘What?’ the blond dwarf gaped for a moment before turning to stare at Thorin in disbelief. _Well done, Thorin,_ thought Ithilrian icily, as Fili began to splutter outraged protests. _You’ve really handled this one well._ Bitterness rose up in her throat like bile, and she swallowed the feeling angrily as a familiar ache began to pulse softly within her chest. The soul-pain was less sharp, less urgent than it had been before; but it hurt nonetheless. 

‘We grew up on tales of the mountain – tales that you told us!’ she heard Fili cry indignantly. ‘You cannot take that away from him!’ 

‘Fili,’ said Thorin, trying to reason with the angry prince. ‘I cannot endanger the success of this quest for a single dwarf. Not even my own kin. One day, you will be king, and you will understand…’ 

‘I won’t leave Kili behind,’ Fili interrupted. ‘Never have done, and never will, Uncle.’ He heaved himself out of the narrow boat, glaring back defiantly as he gathered his things and came to stand beside Ithilrian and Kili. 

‘Fili!’ snapped Thorin. Ithilrian could hear the anxiety in his voice. ‘You belong with the Company!’ 

‘I belong with my brother,’ he retorted, squaring his shoulders and glaring defiantly. Ithilrian was forced to conceal a faint, fond smile. _He will make a fine king one day,_ she thought, watching Fili’s expression harden as he met his Uncle’s sapphire stare head-on. 

‘Very well,’ grunted Thorin eventually.

‘I’m staying too,’ announced Oin loudly, still standing on the docks. ‘My place is with the sick.’ 

Thorin did not even reply, simply bowing his head in acknowledgement of the older dwarf’s wishes. He strode past the rest of the boats, coming to a halt in front of Ithilrian. She could see the worry in his eyes that he was struggling to conceal. She held his gaze, allowing her resentment at being left behind to ebb. He was frightened, she realized. He needed her strength, now more than ever. He also needed to know that she would care for his nephews while they were separated; especially now it wasn’t just Kili who would be under her protection. 

‘Do not be afraid,’ she told him softly. ‘I will guard them with my life, _hîr vuin.’_

He released a long, slow breath. ‘Thank you.’ He inclined his head to her formally. ‘Farewell, Ithilrian Tinnulenath, my Twilight Star,’ he said quietly. ‘Till we meet again.’ 

‘Be safe, Thorin Oakenshield,’ she replied softly. ‘May the grace of the Valar protect you. _Na lû e-govaned vîn.’_ She swallowed hard, looking deep into his eyes, sharing his anguish. There was nothing more they could say to one another, standing on Laketown’s frozen docks, under the peering eyes of the gathered townsfolk. She watched, her heart pounding, as Thorin turned away, catching the misery in his eyes before he squared his shoulders resolutely and stepped into the final boat. He nodded brusquely to the waiting oarsman, indicating that they were ready to leave. Slowly, agonizingly, the barges left the dock, the still waters of the lake parting before them in rippling waves of grey. 

_This is it,_ thought Ithilrian dully, as she watched the boats pull away. _This is the beginning of the end._ Dimly she could see the mountain above them, looming out of the mists like a spire of ill omen. A dark cloud of unease seemed to have settled on her heart, filling her with quiet dread. _Fire and blood,_ she thought grimly, remembering the vision she had seen in her mother’s Mirror. _One way or another, this will all be over soon._

~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Elvish translation notes: 
> 
>  
> 
> Ónen i-estel edain, ú-chebin anim. = I give hope to men, I keep none for myself.   
> I Aear cân ven na mar. = The sea calls us home.  
> Na lû e-govaned vîn = Until we next meet.


	40. Trouble in Laketown

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we learn what happens in Laketown in the aftermath of Thorin's departure. Important conversations occur, and a pair of familiar faces make an appearance.

It was a sullen, silent group that returned to the house on the lake after the Company’s barges had finally disappeared from view. Kili had insisted on walking unaided back from the docks; but as soon as they were inside, he collapsed. They were forced to carry him back to the bed, his teeth gritted in pain. 

‘Drink this,’ said Oin gruffly, pouring out a cup full of liquid and holding it carefully to the young dwarf’s lips. ‘There’s a good lad,’ he added as Kili gulped the medicine down, barely even registering the taste. 

‘What is that stuff? Is that the same thing you were giving him yesterday?’ asked Fili, craning his neck to see. 

‘It is,’ replied Oin. ‘But if he continues to be in this much pain, I’ll need to brew another batch.’ He sighed and rubbed his eyes tiredly. Ithilrian felt a momentary stab of guilt when she realized that it was unlikely that Oin had gotten any sleep during the night. 

‘Allow me,’ she offered, stepping forwards. But the dwarf simply waved her away. 

‘We should buy some more ingredients,’ he told her. ‘That human healer said there was an apothecary somewhere in the town. Might be worth seeing if you can find it. Aside from fixing up young Kili here, we’d be sensible to stock up before heading to the mountain.’ He glanced up at her appraisingly. ‘Just don’t strain that shoulder wound,’ he added grumpily. 

‘I’ll come with you.’ Fili jumped up and looked at her hopefully. Ithilrian hesitated before nodding. She could see that the young dwarf was twitching with nervous energy after the confrontation with his uncle. It would do him good to walk some of it off. Besides, she knew that Legolas and Tauriel were still close by. If any danger threatened, the wood elves would protect Kili and Oin until they returned. 

‘Very well,’ she replied. ‘We will not be long.’ She glanced down at Kili fondly. ‘Rest now,’ she added quietly. ‘The sooner you regain your strength, the sooner we can catch up with the others.’ 

‘I’ll do my best,’ replied Kili, smiling lopsidedly at her as his head slumped, the pain tonic beginning to take effect. 

With a sigh, Ithilrian left the house, making her way carefully along the town’s narrow walkways. Fili trotted beside her, glancing left and right as they went. 

‘So… any idea where we’re going?’ he asked her quietly.

‘No,’ she replied simply. She glanced down in surprise as Fili chuckled. ‘What is it?’ 

‘Nothing.’ Fili grinned up at her impishly. ‘Turns out, you and Uncle both have the same sense of direction. He lost his way to Bag End twice, do you remember?’ 

‘I do,’ she replied, smiling faintly. The dim ache inside her chest shifted slightly, pulsing with the memory of Thorin’s shy smile and gruff laughter. Anxiety bloomed within her, a cold ripple of dread that she managed to conceal from the young prince.

‘I’m sure we’ll see it before long,’ Fili was saying. ‘A town this size, it can’t be hard to find.’ He paused, glancing up at her shyly. ‘You and Uncle Thorin…’ he began hesitantly, his voice trailing off awkwardly. 

‘Yes?’ Ithilrian raised an eyebrow sharply, coming to a halt at what appeared to be a mostly deserted town square. ‘I’m sorry, Fili,’ she added quietly. ‘I haven’t even had the chance to speak with you about it all yet. I imagine that to your eyes, our relationship must have appeared to progress very quickly.’

‘I… well, yes,’ mumbled Fili. The faint trace of a blush was just visible on his cheeks. ‘Not that it matters,’ he added hastily. ‘I know things are… different, for the two of you. And I don’t mind. Really. I’m happy for you both,’ he added, smiling widely. 

‘Thank you.’ Ithilrian returned the smile, a little warmth curling around her ribcage. It was not nearly enough to banish the cold, lonely ache inside her chest; but it did make it a little more bearable. 

‘You make him really happy,’ Fili said quietly. He looked away, almost as if he was embarrassed at the confession. ‘Back in Ered Luin, he was always so grim. Kili and I never really gave it too much thought before now; Uncle’s always grouchy at the best of times, you know that. But we both noticed the change once we were back on the road. In ten years, I’ve never seen him smile so much. Especially now that you’ve… now that you’re…’ 

‘Courting? Betrothed?’ Ithilrian supplied. 

‘Yeah,’ nodded Fili enthusiastically. ‘It’s a bit weird, I won’t deny it. Elves and dwarves don’t normally mix. But you’re different. With you and him… everything’s different.’ 

‘I… suppose it is, yes,’ she replied quietly. ‘Thank you, Fili.’

‘For what?’ he asked. 

‘For accepting me. Us. All of this.’ She stepped carefully around a tangle of fishing nets, wrinkling her nose at the pungent odor of stale fish that seemed to permeate the area. ‘By the Valar,’ she swore, catching Fili’s arm as he stumbled and nearly fell. ‘Please be careful. The last thing we need is for you to tumble head-first into this confounded lake. I have no desire to dive in after you.’ 

‘I’m fine,’ he reassured her, glancing around. ‘But I think we’ve gone the wrong way.’ 

‘You may be right.’ Ithilrian glanced around. The narrow walkway they were traversing ran parallel to a row of shabby, dilapidated houses. None of them looked like the place that they were looking for. 

‘Lost, are you?’ a sneering voice said from behind them. Ithilrian turned to see a small, hunched-looking man, with greasy black hair and a snide expression. ‘The Master said you’d all be gone by now,’ he added, looking the mismatched pair up and down. ‘We don’t want no-one just wandering willy-nilly all over the town, like you own the place.’ 

Ithilrian raised a single eyebrow. ‘We are seeking the apothecary,’ she replied, keeping her tone pleasant. ‘My friend and I simply wish to purchase supplies.’ 

‘A likely story,’ sneered the man, revealing a row of prominent, yellowing teeth. ‘Causing trouble, you are. Folk don’t need no more dwarves or elves hanging around, thank you very much. This is a man’s town.’ He took a menacing step towards them. Ithilrian stiffened defensively, one hand drifting towards a dagger as she moved almost imperceptibly in front of Fili.

‘Alfred.’ 

A sharp voice from behind them made all three heads turn. Another man had arrived on the scene, standing confidently in the small, narrow barge he was poling up the icy waterway. His dark hair had been pulled back loosely from his face, which was set into a scowl. 

‘Bard,’ grunted the greasy man in reply. ‘What’re you doing here?’ 

‘Trying to stop you from insulting our guests any further,’ the man Bard replied easily. ‘Better run back to the Master like a good little river rat, eh?’ he added with a smirk, as the man Alfred’s face creased in anger. 

‘You watch your mouth, fisherman,’ he snarled. But with a final sneer at Ithilrian and Fili, the man turned tail and left, stomping heavily away with bad grace, disappearing around the corner. Ithilrian breathed a sigh of relief. 

‘Thank you,’ she said, turning to face the newcomer, watching carefully as he guided his skiff towards the platform with practiced ease. 

‘No need,’ the man shrugged, stepping out of the boat. ‘Alfred’s a sly one. He’s not likely to confront you again, but keep a sharp eye out while you’re here. He tends to hold a grudge.’

‘Yeah, I can see that,’ nodded Fili, scowling back the way Alfred had come. ‘Fili, son of Víli,’ he added, turning back to Bard and offering his hand with a smile. ‘At your service, Mister… Bard, was it?’ 

‘Just Bard,’ replied the man stiffly, smiling nonetheless as he shook the young dwarf’s hand warily. ‘I heard tell of the company of dwarves that arrived with the elves last night,’ he added, glancing between the two of them with thinly veiled curiosity. ‘But I thought you all left by boat this morning.’ 

‘The larger part of our company did,’ supplied Ithilrian. ‘Only four of us yet remain.’ 

‘Us?’ Bard tilted his head to one side. ‘I assumed you were one of the woodland folk. You are a part of the dwarven Company too?’ he proffered his hand hesitantly. Ithilrian reached out and grasped it firmly. 

‘Indeed.’ They shook hands, Ithilrian holding the man’s steady gaze all the while. ‘My name is Ithilrian, if there are to be introductions,’ she added, smiling faintly. ‘A pleasure to meet you.’ 

Bard returned the smile, dark eyes crinkling pleasantly at the corners. ‘The same,’ he replied. ‘Although if you’re looking for the apothecary, Alfred was right. You are lost.’ 

‘Told you,’ grinned Fili, glancing up at Ithilrian triumphantly. ‘You and Uncle really do have the same sense of direction!’ 

‘Fili!’ she huffed indignantly, as the man let out a low chuckle of amusement. ‘That is an entirely unfair assessment, and you know it.’ 

‘Sorry Auntie.’ Fili nudged her playfully. ‘Will you show us where it is?’ he added, looking up at Bard hopefully. 

‘I will,’ he nodded, glancing between them with a surprised expression. ‘Auntie?’ he repeated incredulously. 

‘Not by blood,’ replied Fili quickly. 

‘Yes, I can see that,’ Bard commented dryly. 

‘She’s betrothed to my Uncle,’ nodded the dwarf prince. ‘Uncle Thorin. That means she’s an honorary aunt to Kili and me. He’s my brother.’ 

‘I see.’ The man’s eyes twinkled with curiosity. ‘A betrothal between an elf and a dwarf?’ 

‘Yes.’ Ithilrian felt herself beginning to frown defensively. ‘Is that a problem?’

‘Nope.’ He shrugged, smiling easily. ‘Stranger things have happened, after all.’ He dipped his head to her slightly. ‘Sorry if I caused offence.’ 

‘There is no need to apologize,’ replied Ithilrian, her tone softening. ‘I am aware that our situation is not usual. But then, that could apply to almost everything that has happened on this quest so far,’ she added. ‘It is not usual to be hounded by orcs, attacked by giant spiders, nearly eaten by trolls, chased through the mountains by goblins…’ 

‘That sounds like quite the tale.’ Bard gestured towards his boat, inviting them to step inside. ‘Hop in. I’ll take you up to the apothecary’s place, if you like. Save you the walk.’ 

‘Thanks!’ Fili grinned enthusiastically, stepping clumsily into the boat. It rocked gently as he settled in the prow, looking eagerly up at Bard. Ithilrian shook her head in amusement, stepping in lightly and standing beside the lakeman as he guided the narrow barge with consummate ease, tracing a meandering path through the winding canals that threaded Laketown’s ramshackle streets. 

‘This is the one,’ he said, pulling in at a narrow jetty. ‘Third door on the left, you can’t miss it. The house you’re staying in is only a couple of streets away. Think you can find your way back?’ 

‘Hopefully.’ Fili laughed as he hopped out of the boat, holding out his hand to Ithilrian. She took it carefully, stepping up and onto the jetty. 

‘Our thanks,’ she said quietly, looking back at Bard, holding his gaze. There was something about him, she thought to herself. He was looking at her curiously, seeming both shy and eager at the same time, as if he was holding back from asking something important. But she did not sense any enmity coming from the man. She had already noticed his threadbare coat and worn boots. It seemed that while the Master of the town had gold to spare, the rest of his people were hardly so well off. ‘If you’d care to stop by later, I’m sure supper can stretch to feed another mouth,’ she added cautiously. ‘Perhaps then we can speak further.’ 

‘Thank you.’ The man nodded slightly. ‘I’ll consider it.’ She watched as his boat glided away. 

‘He seemed nice,’ commented Fili, as they began to walk along the street. ‘A bit grim, but friendly.’ 

‘Indeed.’ Ithilrian nodded. ‘I have a sense there is more going on in this town than we know,’ she added under her breath. ‘Keep your eyes and ears open, Fili. I feel that this man may hold answers to the questions we have not yet thought to ask.’ 

The young dwarf shook his head. ‘All right.’ He glanced up at her curiously. ‘Uncle trusted you to stay and look after us,’ he added with a shy smile. ‘We trust you too.’

Ithilrian smiled as they stepped into the dim light of the apothecary’s shop, glad that Fili had apparently failed to notice the slight flush of pleasure his words had brought to her cheeks. It was one thing for Thorin to trust her. It was quite another for his nephews to do so as well. Heart throbbing happily, she turned to the counter, greeting the wizened old man with a smile. _I will make sure that trust is not misplaced,_ she thought to herself. _I will make sure that neither he nor his brother comes to harm while I am here. After all, they are family now._

~

When they returned to the house with fresh supplies, Oin met them at the door. Though exhausted, the older dwarf was smiling. 

‘Kili’s improving,’ he announced without preamble, leading down the corridor. Ithilrian nodded acknowledgement to Legolas, who was hovering just outside the sickroom, with a faintly irritable expression creasing his smooth elvish face. The reason for it soon became apparent when they stepped inside. Kili was sitting up in bed, laughing and joking with Tauriel, who had taken the chair at the young prince’s bedside. 

‘We finally got the right antidote down his stubborn throat,’ nodded Oin in satisfaction. ‘His temperature’s going down, and the wound looks like it’s beginning to heal nicely.’

‘Valar be praised,’ breathed Ithilrian, clapping a hand on Oin’s shoulder. ‘Well done, my friend.’ Fili let out a delighted whoop and rushed to his brother’s side. The feeling of relief in the room was tangible. Ithilrian remained standing in the doorway, leaning against the timber frame. ‘What was it?’ she added curiously, glancing at Oin, and then at Legolas who had come to stand beside her. 

‘We reckon the arrow had been tipped with extract of monkshood,’ replied the older dwarf. 

‘Truly?’ replied Ithilrian, her expression grave. ‘Oin, if that’s the case…’ 

‘I know.’ The dwarf sighed heavily. ‘He’s been lucky.’ 

‘We believe that the poison may have been old, and therefore had lost much of its potency; or there may have been only a trace amount left when the arrow hit. Otherwise, the reaction would have been far stronger,’ said Legolas in a low voice. ‘Had the poison been fresh, he would have been dead within minutes.’ 

‘Yes, thank you for your input,’ snorted Oin irritably. 

Ithilrian shook her head. ‘He’s right, and you know it. We normally call the toxin _aconite_ at home. But by any name, it is deadly. Kili had a fortunate escape. Thorin was wise to leave him behind until we could find him the proper medicine.’ 

‘You are correct. Without it, the wound would have festered and grown worse.’ Legolas met Ithilrian’s gaze, and inclined his head towards the door in silent invitation. With one last glance towards Kili, Ithilrian nodded and followed. 

After leaving the house, Legolas led her several paces down the street, taking a sharp left and climbing easily up a ladder and then a dangling rope. They ended up standing on the roof of the house the dwarves were staying in, on a small flattened space just above the eaves. The position commanded an excellent view of not just the town, Ithilrian realized. To the east she could see Mirkwood in the distance, the bright silver thread of the forest river disappearing into its green depths. To the south she could see the River Running, winding its way along the plains, its path hidden from view among the undulating hills. And to the North…

Ithilrian swallowed hard. The jagged peak of the Lonely Mountain was plainly visible, its snowy sides wreathed in silvery mist. It seemed to tower over them, dark and foreboding, like a spire of ill omen looming grimly over all. Suddenly, she was all too aware of how very vulnerable they were, mired in the middle of an icy lake, with little more than planks of wood between them and a watery grave, should the dragon launch an attack on the town. 

‘It is very close,’ said Legolas, as if reading her thoughts. ‘The lakemen have always dwelt in the shadow of the mountain, despite the danger that lurks within.’

‘Why?’ she asked softly. ‘Why do they not leave? Do they believe the dragon to be a myth? To be dead?’

‘No.’ Legolas shook his head slowly. ‘The men of the lake are the descendants of Dale; the grandsons of those who did not perish in Smaug’s initial onslaught. After Dale fell into ruin and ash, the men moved downstream. They had neither the strength nor the resources to travel any great distances, looking for a new home. So they settled here, and struck up trade with my father. They thought that living on the lake might give the dragon pause, should he leave his lair again. After all, creatures of fire have no love of cold water.’ 

Ithilrian shivered. ‘Let us hope we do not need to test that particular theory,’ she murmured. ‘For I fear the waters will not aid us much, should Smaug attack the town.’ She lifted her eyes to the mountain’s peak, as though already expecting to see the shadow of the great wyrm bearing down on them through the mists. 

‘Do you believe that he will?’ asked Legolas. The wood elf’s eyes were narrowed, and he was watching her carefully. She furrowed her brow, not answering immediately, giving her answer careful thought.

‘Nothing is certain,’ she said eventually. ‘The dragon has not been seen for sixty years. Rumors reached Ered Luin that he is not merely sleeping, but utterly dead and dark; that the great wealth of Durin’s Folk now lies unguarded. But you and I both know that is not likely to be true.’ She shifted position on the roof, leaning her back against the chimneystack. ‘Thorin plans to enter the mountain in secret,’ she said softly. ‘To steal that which would give him the right to rule: the Arkenstone. The King’s Jewel would bestow upon him the authority to unite the seven dwarf kingdoms; to summon an army big enough to launch an assault on the Lonely Mountain.’ 

Legolas hesitated. ‘That is his plan?’ he asked quietly. ‘I did not expect you to be quite so frank with me, Lady Ithilrian. Thorin Oakenshield would never have divulged such information to my father.’ 

‘I know. That is why I am speaking with you, and not Thranduil.’ Ithilrian ran a hand distractedly through her silver braids, staring across the distant plains. ‘If Thorin’s plan is successful, then we shall leave Erebor ere long. Thorin will be forced to travel many leagues across Middle Earth to unite the dwarf kingdoms: west, back to Ered Luin and the Blue Mountains; south to the Grey Mountains and the Withered Heath; as well as eastwards, to Rhûn and the Iron Hills. Possibly even further. It will take time, and careful planning.’ She turned to face the woodland prince, matching him stare for stare. ‘During that time, you must not be idle. Any assault launched upon Smaug will certainly end in bloodshed, whether the dragon is slain or not.’ 

She gazed out over the town, towards the distant smudge of Mirkwood on the horizon. ‘A war such as the one Thorin is planning will not be confined to Erebor alone,’ she added softly. ‘Smaug will suffer no rival. No dragon ever has. His fury at the challenge will know no bounds. He will lay to waste everything in his path; be it elf, dwarf, or human. Your realm, and this town, are the closest settlements to the mountain; and thus will most likely bear the full brunt of the dragonfire, just as Dale did long ago.’

Legolas narrowed his eyes. ‘Why are you telling me this?’ 

Ithilrian glanced back at him, her grey eyes steely. ‘Because you are a prince of the Sindar; and therefore charged with the protection of the silvan folk. If Thorin gains the Arkenstone, it will take time for him to build an army. That is time you must use to make plans for the safety of your people.’ She shrugged. ‘You have trade agreements and alliances with Laketown, do you not? Consider strengthening them. Enlarge your underground realm, and offer the men sanctuary against the coming storm. It may be the only way to escape the dragon’s wrath, should the dwarves launch a full-scale assault upon the Lonely Mountain.’ She turned away, glancing warily up at the snow-capped peak once again.

‘I… thank you for your words, Lady Ithilrian,’ replied Legolas slowly. He executed a simple bow, looking at her with dawning admiration. ‘If what you say is true, then the information you offer may save many lives.’ He hesitated, tilting his head to one side questioningly. ‘Does Oakenshield know you are telling me this?’ he asked quietly. 

‘No,’ replied Ithilrian simply. ‘And before you ask, I am uncertain as to whether it would meet with his full approval either. I am sure you already know that he has no love of your folk. But that is beside the point. If the dragon were to wipe out Laketown… if he were to bring the same desolation to other parts of Middle Earth…’ she sighed. ‘I know Thorin would feel it deeply. He would see it as his fault for awakening the beast to begin with. The guilt would tear him apart inside.’ 

Legolas smiled faintly. ‘You presume to know the dwarf’s inner thought very well,’ he observed carefully. ‘Are you certain it is not just simple greed that drives him? Men have fought and killed for far less than a mountain of gold, after all.’ 

‘I am sure,’ replied Ithilrian quietly. ‘I have seen his heart, Legolas. It is filled with longing. Not for treasure: but for a home. It is as simple as that. He, and his people, have suffered much during their exile. No more.’ She shook her head determinedly. ‘After all, were your kingdom taken from you, would you not fight tooth and nail to reclaim your home?’ 

‘It already has been, in part,’ replied Legolas, bitterness edging his words. ‘You have seen for yourself the foulness that encroaches upon our borders. Something dark festers in the heart of our forest; and yet we are powerless to stop it spreading.’

Ithilrian nodded tiredly. ‘The world is changing, _mellon nîn._ I can feel it in the waters, in the earth, in the very air itself. I fear a storm is coming; one that will shake the whole of Arda.’ 

‘You mean the dragon?’ asked Legolas tentatively. Ithilrian shifted, shaking her head slowly, her face creased into a frown. 

‘I… think not,’ she murmured. ‘It is not the fear of dragonfire that worries me. Everywhere I look, war is brewing. Orcs have hunted us relentlessly across the plains, and the mountains are teeming with goblins. Trolls have begun to come down from the Ettenmoors. They are raiding farms, destroying settlements. Wolves howl at Lórien’s borders, and a pack of wargs pursued us even to the brink of the Hidden Valley itself.’ She glanced sideways at the woodland prince, noting the worry that flickered over his delicate elven features. She decided not to mention the blade that Radagast had borne out of Dol Guldur, or the sigil of the Lidless Eye that Gandalf had found scrawled on the statue at the border of Mirkwood. Already, she had likely said too much. ‘I am sorry,’ she added quietly. ‘I fear that I am grim company today.’ 

Legolas turned towards her, smiling faintly. ‘It is of no matter. You speak the truth; and your sight is clearer than anybody I have met before. I am honored to be taken into your confidence.’ 

She inclined her head towards him gracefully. ‘At times such as these, petty rivalries are a foolish thing indeed. We would be wise to work together, to weather whatever storm is about to break.’ She glanced upwards. The sky was heavily overcast, grey as far as the eye could see. The air felt muggy and oppressive. 

‘If only my father could see it as such,’ mused Legolas. ‘He is as stubborn an elf as you’ll ever meet. In that respect, I believe both he and your husband have something in common,’ he added, a warm smile ghosting over his features.

‘I agree,’ sighed Ithilrian. ‘Thorin is a true dwarf. Immovable as the very bones of the earth itself, once he gets an idea into his head.’ She glanced sideways at Legolas, raising a single eyebrow. ‘You called him my husband,’ she observed idly.

‘You did not deny it,’ he replied, a flicker of mirth appearing for a moment in his eyes. 

‘Hmm.’ She smiled fondly. ‘Do not mention it to the other dwarves. Not yet. They would not understand.’

‘I see.’ Legolas smiled; but it was a small, sad smile, directed not at her but at the distant forest on the horizon. _‘Ada_ will be most… put out to hear of that,’ he added, with a rueful laugh. ‘Part of the reason I was assigned the protection duty was to look after you, specifically.’ 

‘Is that so?’ Ithilrian shook her head. ‘I am sorry, Legolas. I cannot give King Thranduil what he seeks.’ 

‘Do not be.’ The wood elf touched her shoulder lightly; a companionable, comforting gesture. ‘It is not your doing. My father…’ he hesitated, glancing at her sidelong. ‘He is a noble man, and a good king; but the passing ages have changed him. He has distanced himself from the rest of the world. I am sure that to outsiders, he appears as hard and cold as the heart of a diamond. But in truth, he feels things deeply, and regrets much. Not a leaf moves in that forest that he doesn’t feel.’ The wood elf sighed, bowing his head wearily. 

‘It must place a heavy burden upon you, to serve and love such a king,’ said Ithilrian softly. 

‘Sometimes.’ Legolas shrugged awkwardly. ‘Many at court find him difficult to deal with. He is older than most, and the weight of this world lies heavily upon him at times. Especially since the last great battle with Gundabad. Ever since… my mother died.’ 

‘I am sorry for your loss,’ replied Ithilrian quietly. She held his gaze carefully, looking deeply into Legolas’s startlingly blue eyes. There was grief there, and sorrow; but neither was the sharp, jagged feeling that came with a recent wound. 

Legolas shrugged. ‘It was over a thousand years ago. The memory fades over time.’ He hesitated, still holding her gaze. ‘You look a lot like her, you know,’ he murmured. ‘Truly, the resemblance is… startling. I think that, in part, is why my father asked you to stay.’ He smiled and turned away, lowering his gaze. ‘Except for your eyes,’ he added. ‘My mother had the brightest, bluest eyes you’ve ever seen.’

‘Like a cloudless sky at summer’s height,’ nodded Ithilrian, smiling sadly. ‘Like the blue of the cornflowers in an untended meadow. Just like yours.’

‘Yes.’ He let out a small breath of laughter. ‘There is no grave: no memory. Father never even permits her name to be spoken, so deep is his grief. But every time he looks at me, he is reminded of her. Of what he has lost.’ The bitterness was back in the young elf’s voice, harsh and unguarded for a moment. The sound of it tugged painfully at Ithilrian’s heart. She shook her head, lowering her hand to grasp Legolas’s arm gently, reassuringly. 

‘Your father still cares for you, Legolas,’ she murmured. ‘He does not love you any less because of his loss. She was your mother, as well as his wife. He knows you grieve for her too.’ She released his arm, listening to the gentle hitch of the wood elf’s breath as he struggled to keep a reign on his emotions. She turned away, offering him privacy, raising her eyes towards the Lonely Mountain once more, feeling the cold ache inside her pulse and swell with distant longing. She wondered where Thorin was. How far had he managed to travel since leaving the lake? Might he be at the secret door already, simply waiting for the right moment to open it?

She shivered. A chill wind was hissing across the lake, sending ripples and eddies scurrying across the glassy surface. She tore her gaze away from the mountain, bitter loss and longing constricting her throat. _Valar keep him safe,_ she thought desperately. _May the Lady Varda guide his feet along the path, through the deep and empty places he must tread._

‘Come,’ said Legolas softly, a slender hand on her arm once more. ‘Do not fear for Oakenshield. He is strong, and stubborn. He will be fine.’ He smiled briefly. ‘We should return to the others. Enjoy the rest while you can; for my heart tells me that you and I will both need all our strength in the days that are to follow.’ 

~

Dusk had fallen. Ithilrian had taken to pacing the length of the hallway impatiently as Fili took on the task of cooking dinner with considerable enthusiasm. Kili had elected to be his kitchen helper, hobbling too and fro, his leg wound considerably improved already. Oin had long given up shouting at the excitable youngster to remain in bed, and had vanished upstairs to catch up on some well earned sleep; while on the floor below, the kitchen descended into chaos. 

‘Pass me that bowl! No, the other one! Now the spoon as well! Quickly, stir that pot! Is it burning? Please say it isn’t burning! Durin’s beard, it’s burning!!’ 

Ithilrian shook her head in amusement, resisting the urge to poke her head around the door and see just how badly everything was going. The shouts of the irrepressible young dwarves was mingled with a good deal of delighted laughter; something that had been in short supply recently, after everything that had happened. 

_It’s good to hear them both laughing again,_ she thought, turning on her heel at the end of the hall and resuming her slow, languid pace. _Especially after Thorin left them. There will likely be fewer and fewer opportunities like this, the closer we get to our goal._ She paused by the door, and sniffed. Contrary to expectations, an appetizingly savoury smell was beginning to waft from the kitchen. _Perhaps we’ll even end up with a decent supper,_ she thought wryly.

A soft tap at the door drew her out of her thoughts. She closed the distance in moments, listening carefully, before pulling the door wide. ‘I wasn’t sure you would come,’ she said, dipping her head in greeting. 

‘Neither was I,’ replied Bard, nodding and stepping cautiously over the threshold. ‘But it seemed like an opportunity I’d be a fool to pass up.’ 

‘Hmm.’ Ithilrian pushed the door shut behind him, noticing the way he glanced hastily over his shoulder as she did so. ‘Are you well?’ she asked him, lowering her voice. ‘Were you followed?’ 

‘Probably.’ Bard shrugged. ‘The Master’s taken to having me followed everywhere these days. Alfred’s doing, no doubt. But it’s unlikely he’ll try anything tonight.’ He broke off, looking towards the kitchen with alarm. A fresh cacophony of shouting arose from behind the closed door. ‘Is everything… all right?’ he added. 

‘Truth be told, I have no idea,’ sighed Ithilrian, gesturing for him to follow her. ‘Fili and Kili have taken over the kitchen. You may regret your decision to rely on us for an edible supper.’ 

The man chuckled. ‘Whatever it is, I think I can cope.’ He followed her down the hallway as she turned into a large space that had been converted into a rudimentary dining room. Ithilrian took a seat, gesturing for Bard to do the same. She watched his eyes flicker swiftly around the room. _An observant man,_ she thought to herself. _Someone who pays attention to the little details._

‘By the way, I brought you something,’ said Bard, pulling up a chair and collapsing tiredly into it. ‘It’s not much, and it likely won’t fit as well as your other; but at least it’s not torn and covered in blood.’ He withdrew a small package from inside his coat and handed it to Ithilrian. Curious, she opened it. Inside was a tunic, pale blue and obviously old and well worn, but clean and neatly folded. 

‘I couldn’t help but notice earlier,’ Bard said by way of explanation, gesturing towards the tunic Ithilrian was currently wearing. ‘It looks like you’ve been in the wars,’ he added, indicating the dark bloodstain and the ripped sleeve, through which her white cotton bandages were plain to see. 

‘I ran afoul of a particularly unpleasant orc,’ she replied, smiling grimly. ‘Thank you for this,’ she added, tucking the package next to her and offering Bard a warm, delighted smile. ‘It was thoughtful of you.’ 

‘S’allright.’ Bard shifted in his chair, smiling awkwardly. ‘We don’t have much, but we’re willing to share with those who’re in need.’ 

‘We?’ asked Ithilrian, tilting her head slightly. ‘Do you speak for yourself, or for the town as a whole?’ 

Bard shrugged. ‘A bit of both, I guess. I’ve never had the heart to turn down a friend in need. But then, I’m not the only person like that. Most of the poor folk here are the same. Times are hard; and sometimes the only way to get through the season is to work together, sharing food, clothing, resources: whatever we’ve got.’ 

He broke off as the door banged open, and a delighted Kili came hobbling in, clutching a basket of lightly singed bread. ‘Dinner is served!’ he announced delightedly, before halting as he noticed the newcomer. ‘Hello!’ he added brightly. ‘You must be Bard. Fili mentioned you. I’m Kili, by the way. At your service!’ He grinned and offered a short, clumsy bow. Ithilrian shot out a hand as he almost toppled over, his injured leg wobbling precariously beneath him. 

‘Sit down, Kili,’ she sighed impatiently, prodding the dwarf towards a chair and taking the breadbasket from him. She ignored his protests and pushed him firmly into his seat. ‘I’m beginning to see why Thorin begged me to stay behind to keep an eye on you,’ she added, placing a hand on her hip and glaring with mock-sternness at the young dwarf. ‘You are a menace, Kili son of Víli. Valar only knows how Thorin managed to raise you both alone.’ 

‘That’s unfair!’ spluttered Kili indignantly. ‘Fili’s just as bad as I am! Besides, I’m injured, Auntie Ithil! You’ve got to take pity on me!’ 

‘Not when you spend the entire day wobbling around and potentially delaying the healing process!’ snapped Ithilrian. ‘You do know that the longer your wound takes to heal, the longer we’re stuck here; the longer it’s going to take us to reach Erebor.’ 

Kili sighed. ‘Sorry,’ he said, smiling ruefully. ‘I’ll be careful from now on. I know you miss Uncle. I do too. It’s weird, not having him around. He’s always been there for us, you know? He might be an old grump most of the time, but he was always there, whenever you needed him.’ He shifted awkwardly in his seat, glancing towards the door, a sudden smile lighting his face as Tauriel strode in, followed by Legolas. The blond elf’s serene expression faltered at the sight of Kili, replaced by a look of faint annoyance as Tauriel offered the younger dwarf a shy smile. 

_Ah,_ thought Ithilrian, understanding suddenly dawning. _That’s probably the reason Kili’s not quite so eager to leave as he was before._ She watched Kili greet the auburn-haired elf with an enthusiastic grin, before slipping from the room to change into the fresh tunic. The fabric was old, but soft and comfortable nonetheless, with tiny flowers embroidered in simple white thread around the neck and wrists. She nodded, delighted with the gift, making a mental note to find something for Bard to repay him. 

She returned to the room to find the man breaking open one of Kili’s surprisingly well-baked rolls, inhaling the fragrant steam happily as Fili trundled in through the doorway carrying an enormous steaming pot. 

‘Dinner!’ he said happily, plonking it on the table and gesturing towards a stack of bowls and a ladle. ‘Help yourselves! Oh, hello again!’ he added, catching sight of Bard and grinning. ‘We hoped you’d stop by.’ 

‘We did!’ added Kili, scooting his chair closer to his brother’s and leaning forwards eagerly. ‘Auntie Ithil thinks something funny’s going on in the town. We were hoping you’d be able to tell us what it is.’ He paused, looking around in bewilderment as Bard snorted with surprised laughter, and Ithilrian groaned and buried her head in her hands. 

‘Kili, have you ever heard of subtlety? Tact?’ she asked, covering her mouth with her hand to stem the disbelieving laugh that threatened to spill forwards. ‘Thank the Valar that Thorin named Fili as his heir, not you,’ she added, smiling fondly at the youngest prince. ‘You’re a good dwarf, Kili, and I love you dearly; but I suspect you aren’t quite cut out for politics.’ 

‘He certainly isn’t, but that’s no bad thing in my opinion,’ said Bard, grinning and shaking his head. ‘Slimy people, politicians. You can’t trust them as far as you can kick them.’ He helped himself to a bowl of stew, dunking the bread enthusiastically as the rest of the table did the same. 

‘Speaking of politicians, I understand Thorin struck a deal with the Master of Laketown,’ Ithilrian began, watching Bard through the haze of fragrant steam rising from the stewpot. ‘I do not know the details. But I believe that in return for aid, Thorin has promised the Master a share of the treasure, once the mountain has been reclaimed.’ 

‘That sounds much the same as what I’ve heard,’ nodded Bard. ‘Rumor runs rife in a town like this,’ he added with a wry smile. ‘Can’t even catch a fish without someone, somewhere, making a note of it.’ 

‘So I thought.’ Ithilrian hesitated. ‘There is something about this Master of Laketown,’ she added softly. ‘Something that I do not trust. I cannot believe that he would put the town’s best interests above his own, should anything untoward happen.’ 

Bard snorted. ‘You’d be right there. The man cares for nothing but power and money, and his own position.’ He leaned forwards, scowling. ‘You’ve seen the state of this town. The state of the people. Many are poor, even starving. Yet the Master doesn’t lift a finger to do anything; save raise the taxes.’ 

‘Hmm.’ Ithilrian frowned. ‘And… the portion of the treasure that Thorin has promised…?’ 

‘Would likely go directly into the Master’s personal coffers,’ replied Bard immediately. ‘No-one in the town would see a single coin of it.’ 

‘Then perhaps it is time the town had a new leader,’ mused Legolas, turning piercing blue eyes towards Bard. ‘The Master is a publically elected official, after all. If the people decide his time is done, then there may be the opportunity for a new Master to rise.’ The blond elf raised his brows. ‘One who looks out for the people. One who carries the blood of Girion, the last Lord of Dale.’ 

Bard shook his head vehemently. ‘Not me. I have no desire to lead. Let others take the power; I just want to help my family.’ 

‘Girion?’ Fili echoed the name, watching Bard with his eyes widening. ‘You’re descended from the Lord of Dale?’ 

Bard scowled. ‘What of it?’ 

‘Then surely… the lordship of Laketown is yours to claim, through blood if nothing else?’ asked Ithilrian tentatively. 

‘Not any more.’ Bard shook his head ruefully. ‘On the day the dragon came, my ancestor tried to defend Dale. Arrow after arrow he shot at that beast; and all must have gone awry, for the town was burned to ashes and Girion was slain. After he failed to defend his people… well, to say that his line was not exactly popular would be an understatement.’ 

‘That was years ago. And look where it led,’ replied Legolas, narrowing his eyes shrewdly. Ithilrian found herself nodding, knowing that the wood elf was remembering the information she’d given him earlier that day. If the Woodland Realm was to ally itself even more closely with Laketown, it would be best for both parties for the town to have a trustworthy leader: somebody who would look after the best interests of the people, not just himself. 

Ithilrian tried her best to relax as the conversation buzzed around her. Fili and Kili had begun to ply Bard with eager questions about Dale, most of which the man was unable to answer. But that did not seem to put them off. Tauriel was silent, watching the conversation dart to and fro with an amused expression on her delicate features. But try as she might, Ithilrian could not dispel the tension that was growing inside her. _Relax,_ she told herself sternly. _It will not be long now. Another day, maybe two; and we can set off for the mountain. There are guards posted all around the town. Azog would be a fool to try and attack us here._

The evening wound on; but even after darkness had fallen Ithilrian still could not shake the uneasiness from her thoughts. The back of her neck was prickling, as though she was being watched; and a dark sense of foreboding seemed to have settled over her, making her feel jittery and uncomfortable. She paid little attention to the talk around the table, concentrating instead on listening to the sounds of the town settling down for the night. She could hear the muted rumble of distant conversations, the splash and clunk of oars as families poled their narrow boats up and down the street canals.

‘Are you all right?’ Fili laid a hand on her arm, startling her. ‘You’re awfully jumpy all of a sudden,’ he added quietly. ‘Is everything okay?’ 

She shook her head irritably. ‘It’s probably nothing,’ she replied, glancing around uneasily. 

‘I know what you mean.’ Legolas had risen from his seat, meeting her gaze. ‘The shadow of a threat has been growing in my mind too.’ 

‘What do you mean?’ said Bard, glancing around. ‘Everything seems fine to m–argh!’ 

The peace of the house was shattered as, with a crash of broken glass, a pair of orcs barreled through the windows with weapons drawn and teeth bared. They leapt forwards; only to be swiftly felled as Bard grabbed the soup ladle, walloping the first orc on the head with a resounding _clang,_ and Ithilrian launched herself at the second, drawing a dagger from her belt and driving it hard into the creature’s gut. 

‘Look out!’ she cried, dropping the dying orc and drawing her second blade. ‘More are coming!’ 

‘Where’s Oin?’ called Kili, pulling himself upright. ‘Somebody should warn him!’ He ducked as the door burst its hinges and another group of orcs hurtled towards them, brandishing a wicked assortment of ugly weapons. One leapt directly for the youngest prince, a rusty knife in each hand; but before Kili could even raise an arm to defend himself, Tauriel was there. Her twin daggers were a blur of shimmering steel as she slashed left and right in quick succession. The creature dropped like a stone, black blood seeping over the floorboards. Ducking the blade of another orc, she tugged Kili out of harm’s way and positioned herself before him defensively, driving a dagger into the neck of another orc that strayed too close while Fili, Legolas, and Ithilrian engaged the remaining attackers. In a matter of moments, it was over. 

‘Bloody hell,’ swore Bard, as the last orc’s gurgling scream was cut off as Ithilrian rammed her blade into its throat. ‘You weren’t kidding about the orcs following you,’ he added, glancing around warily. ‘What do they want?’ 

‘They want the lives of Thorin, and his nephews,’ Ithilrian answered curtly, wiping her daggers clean on the tablecloth. ‘Needless to say, that is not something I am willing to part with.’ She ran a critical eye over Kili, nodding at Tauriel. ‘Guard him,’ she ordered curtly. ‘There may be more on the way. I’m going to the roof.’ The silvan elf nodded, twirling her daggers defensively as Ithilrian slipped from the room, silent as a shadow.

‘I’m not a child, I can defend myself,’ snapped Kili. 

‘No, but you are wounded, and therefore more vulnerable than others,’ replied Tauriel, her pointed ears twitching as she listened intently for further attacks. 

‘Ithilrian’s wounded too. You don’t seem as worried about her,’ muttered Kili resentfully. 

‘That is true. Then again, I did just see her almost decapitate an orc with one sweep of her blade,’ replied Tauriel testily. ‘I do not think her Ladyship needs any assistance from me.’ 

‘Ladyship?’ muttered Bard incredulously. ‘Just when you think you know someone…’ 

‘I believe we’re clear for now,’ said Ithilrian, stalking back into the room and nodding at Fili, who was waiting with swords drawn. ‘I cannot see any more of the scum. I think we should leave now, while we have the chance.’

‘Leave?’ replied Fili. ‘Leave the house? Why?’ 

‘Because clearly, they knew exactly where to find us,’ replied Ithilrian impatiently. ‘Somebody must have tipped them off.’ 

‘Durin’s beard,’ swore Fili softly, understanding dawning. ‘You’re right. We need to get out of here.’ He glanced around, hesitating. ‘But where can we go? What’s wrong?’ he added, as Bard seemed to stagger slightly, the colour draining from his face. 

‘My children,’ replied the lakeman, his voice thick with worry. ‘They’re all alone in the house. If the orcs didn’t come to this place specifically… if they’re attacking homes at random…’ 

‘Then it is settled.’ Ithilrian nodded brusquely. ‘We leave, now. Kili, douse the lights. Fili, run upstairs and fetch Oin. Legolas, can you scout ahead? Check that the path outside is clear. Don’t worry,’ she added to Bard. ‘We will come with you. If any orc filth are there, we will keep your children safe. You have my word.’ 

‘Thank you,’ replied the man hoarsely. ‘If only I had my bow,’ he muttered, glancing around frantically. 

‘You’re an archer?’ Ithilrian asked, twirling her daggers before sheathing them at her belt. ‘In that case, I may have something for you.’ She reached beneath the table, drawing out her quiver of grey-fletched arrows. ‘Take these,’ she said, offering them to him. ‘I lost my bow some days ago, and I have yet to find a suitable replacement. The arrows are too long for Kili’s hunting bow. I have no further use for them; but they may serve you well if there are more orcs on the prowl.’ 

‘Thank you.’ Bard nodded grimly, shouldering the quiver as Oin and Fili came tumbling down the stairs. ‘Ready?’ 

Ithilrian nodded. ‘As we’ll ever be,’ she replied. ‘Let’s go.’ 

They wove a meandering path through Laketown’s darkened streets. Ithilrian let Bard lead the way, following as the man led them through the narrow streets and across the icy waters with practiced ease. The hour was late, and few people were on the streets. None seemed to pay particular attention to the mismatched group as they moved cautiously forwards, eyes and ears primed for any sight of the rest of Azog’s pack. 

‘I do not like this,’ murmured Legolas, offering his hand to Ithilrian as they were forced to leap a narrow canal. ‘The orcs that attacked us. They bore a brand I have not seen in centuries; nor wish to see ever again. The mark of Gundabad.’ 

Ithilrian swore quietly in sindarin. ‘You are right. That does not bode well.’ She glanced around, keen eyes scanning the streets for any sign of suspicious movement.

‘We’re here,’ called Bard hoarsely. He halted in front of a ramshackle wooden house, pushing the door open cautiously. Somewhere along the way he’d picked up a hefty barge pole to use as a weapon, and was holding it like a quarterstaff. ‘Tilda? Sigrid?’ he called quietly, as the door creaked slowly open. 

‘Da!’ called a delighted voice. ‘You’re back! How was your talk with the elf lady?’ A young girl came running to the door, halting in astonishment at the sight of the elves and dwarves all standing beside her father with drawn weapons. ‘Da?’ she ventured anxiously. ‘What’s going on?’ 

‘Into the house Tilda, quickly now!’ replied Bard, the relief evident in his voice as he ushered her back inside and gestured for the others to follow. He shut the door behind them, dropping the bar into place and hesitating, before dragging a low wooden bench up against it for good measure.

‘If we need to escape, there’s always the windows,’ he said, catching Fili’s eye.

The blond dwarf nodded. ‘I’ll help shore it up. Go and speak to your family,’ he offered, grabbing a couple of chairs. Bard nodded gratefully and sped up the stairs. 

_It’s going to be a sleepless night,_ thought Ithilrian, eyeing the narrow windows critically. She flexed her shoulder carefully, noting the spasm of pain that shot through her arm when she pushed the injured muscle too far. _Not too bad,_ she thought critically, pleased with the speed with which her injury was healing.

‘No sight nor sound of the orcs,’ murmured Tauriel, stopping close beside her. ‘We may have escaped their notice, for now.’ 

‘Good.’ Ithilrian nodded. ‘But nevertheless, we should remain wary. Lives other than our own are now at stake.’ 

‘I know.’ The red-haired elf’s eyes wandered over to where Bard had sat his children down, and was giving them a brief account of what had occurred. The young boy’s eyes were wide with amazement, and he kept glancing over at the elves and the dwarves as if unable to believe the evidence of his own eyes. The two girls were staring at their father with rapt attention. Ithilrian felt a pang of worry stir in her gut. If the orcs attacked them here, things would get very messy, very quickly. Her gaze flickered swiftly around the narrow room, taking note of possible areas of entry, vantage points, and potential weapons. _The cast iron cookware is always an option,_ her inner thought whispered, as she remembered Bombur’s prowess with his oversized soup ladle. _Good old Bombur,’_ she thought fondly. _‘I wonder how he’s doing. I hope they’re all okay. I wonder if Thorin has…_

Her thoughts were interrupted by an ominous rumbling sound. Fili glanced around uncertainly. ‘Thunder?’ he said. ‘I didn’t think there was a storm due. The sky was clear earlier.’ 

But the rumbling did not stop. It grew louder with every second, a low booming roar that seemed to reverberate through the bones of the earth itself, deep and dark and full of menace. Ithilrian felt the blood freeze in her veins as she looked towards the window. ‘No,’ she whispered hoarsely, cold dread slithering down her spine like jagged splinters of ice. 

‘What? What is it?’ asked Kili, craning his neck to look up at her. The elf’s face was grim, ashen with horror. 

‘Look.’ She pointed towards the window, where a dim orange glow was rising from the distant mountain. The rumbling sound increased, becoming a low roar that seemed to shake the house to its foundations; until a burst of sudden flame seemed to lick over the distant solitary peak, sending a bright yellow afterglow up into the night.

‘He’s awake,’ she whispered. Her voice was hoarse and shaking. ‘Smaug is awake.’ She narrowed her eyes. Her keen elvish vision meant that she was able to clearly see him circling against the stars, wheeling in a large, sweeping arc before speeding directly towards them. 

‘He’s heading for the town.’ She gulped out the words, panic rising in her throat like bile. ‘The dragon is coming. He’s flying straight for us. Sound the alarm, we must evacuate the people!’ 

_But where?_ She thought frantically. _Where can they go? There is nowhere that will be safe!_ Her heart was thrumming at fever pitch, and she grasped the windowsill with trembling hands. _May the Valar have mercy,_ she thought desperately, watching the vast loathsome shape wheel and glide, blotting out the stars. _May the Valar have mercy upon us all._

~


	41. Fire and Water

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Smaug attacks Laketown.

The bells rang wildly, tolling the alarm. The sound of screaming and cries of panic rent the night air, as the dragon circled overhead. Fire leapt from his jaws, cutting a bright swathe of destruction through the town. Everywhere Ithilrian looked, families were huddling in their houses, or scrambling to pack their belongings into narrow boats and barges, rowing them frantically away from the town towards deeper waters. 

‘Come on,’ Bard exhorted her, tugging at her arm frantically as she stood with her neck craned back, watching Smaug wheel about for another run. ‘You have to get moving! Into the boat, now!’ He all but dragged her into the barge, where the dwarves, elves, and Bard’s children were already huddled. Tauriel had her arms around the two young girls, who were trembling against the silvan elf’s shoulder. Her green eyes were wide with terror.

‘Get downriver, away from the town. Make for the western shore of the lake. Maybe you can find shelter there.’ Bard gripped his son’s shoulders tightly, looking deep into his eyes. ‘Stay with your sisters, Bain. Look after them.’ 

‘I promise,’ nodded the boy, frightened but determined. They were forced to duck as another massive blast of flame came searing down from Smaug’s jaws, incinerating an entire row of houses. Bard was knocked from his feet by the massive downdraft from the monster’s wings, his hands clawing frantically at the rotting wooden boards as he struggled not to be pitched into the lake. 

‘Go! Get out of here, now!’ cried Bard. He scrambled back onto his feet, putting his shoulder to the boat’s side, giving it a shove to get it moving. Fili and Oin took the oars, their faces set resolutely.

‘What about you?’ asked Legolas, balancing easily as the boat began to drift. ‘Where will you go?’ 

‘I will find you afterwards,’ the man replied grimly. ‘Girion failed to destroy this beast, and look at what it has done. It incinerated his town and murdered his people. This is my home. I will not sit idly by and watch it happen again!’ 

‘Da!’ screamed the youngest girl, her face wet with tears. ‘Da, come with us! Don’t leave us! Please!’ 

‘Be good, Tilda,’ he called, gazing fondly at his children as the flames engulfing the town licked higher. ‘I’ll be back before you know it,’ he added, before turning and striding back towards the house. But before he could enter, he was forced to halt. Ithilrian had taken a leap from the boat, clearing the growing distance easily and landing in front of the bewildered lakeman.

‘What are you doing?’ she asked quietly, ignoring the panicked cries of the dwarves behind her. ‘Bard, you must know this is suicide! We have nothing, no weapon that will pierce that foul creature’s hide. Your arrows will not even scratch his scales!’ 

‘I know.’ The man’s face was set and grim. ‘But nonetheless, I must try. What else is there to do? And who else will do it, if not me?’ 

Ithilrian narrowed her eyes. The man’s face was ashen with fear, but resolute. ‘Then I shall come with you,’ she said slowly. ‘Perhaps this is the reason I was compelled to follow Thorin, to join this quest. To help you slay the beast.’ 

‘No.’ Bard shook his head vehemently, glancing over her shoulder. ‘You must take the boat, get my children to shore. Please, I am begging you!’ He gripped her arm tightly. ‘You promised me earlier that you would keep them safe. That oath still stands.’ 

Ithilrian hesitated. ‘Very well.’ She placed a hand upon his shoulder and leaned forwards swiftly, touching her forehead to his in a compassionate, sorrowful gesture. ‘Good luck, Bard of Esgaroth. May the Valar guide your hand.’ 

‘Thank you.’ The man nodded grimly. ‘Now, go! Go!’ 

She nodded, turning back to the water. The barge had halted in its progress, Fili refusing to row any further until Ithilrian had returned. 

‘Durin’s beard! What in Mahal’s name did you think you were doing?’ gasped Fili, as Ithilrian leapt aboard once more. ‘You could have died, you could have…’ he broke off, swearing loudly as the dragon loosed yet another blast of fire. All around them the buildings were burning, bright flames rising higher and higher into the night. The growing heat was becoming unbearable.

The barge began to move swiftly as the dwarves threw their formidable strength at the oars, sending the narrow boat speeding down what remained of Laketown’s streets. Legolas and Tauriel took up positions at the prow, armed with long poles to steer them through the burning mounds of fallen debris. Thanks to the strength of the dwarves and the keen eyes of the elves, it wasn’t long before their boat cleared the town, sailing swiftly away from the inferno behind them and towards the relative safety of the western shore. 

Ithilrian swallowed hard, her arms locked around Sigrid and Bain, holding them tightly as the boat sped away from the only home they’d ever known. She gazed upwards, watching as the dragon seemed almost to dance and spin through the air triumphantly, as though reveling in the destruction he had wrought. Beside her, Kili kept his arms around Tilda, Bard’s youngest, whose small head was buried in the dwarf prince’s shoulder.

‘It’s happening again.’ Kili’s voice was shaking. ‘This is exactly like before. Balin told me what happened. It’s like the destruction of Dale all over again.’ His breathing was harsh and ragged. ‘Is it our fault, Auntie? Did we cause all this by coming here?’ 

Ithilrian could not speak. She met Kili’s gaze, seeing her own horror mirrored in the youngster’s wide brown eyes. ‘I don’t know Kili,’ she managed to gulp out eventually, as another blast of fire shook the ruined town behind them. ‘I don’t have any answers.’ 

Sand and gravel crunched beneath the keel of the boat as they finally reached the shore. Ithilrian leant a hand to pull it higher up the beach, noticing that they were not the only ones to have fled to the lakeside. All around them the cries of the wounded filled the air. 

‘What was that?’ called Tauriel. The wood elf was staring back towards the town. Ithilrian narrowed her eyes, coming to stand beside her. 

‘Bard,’ she whispered. The man had scaled the bell tower, and was firing arrow after arrow at Smuag as he circled above. Ithilrian winced, her keen eyesight allowing her to see clearly as each and every shaft ricocheted harmlessly off the dragon’s gleaming scales. 

‘His arrows cannot piece the creature’s hide,’ said Tauriel softly. ‘I fear nothing will.’ 

‘Da!’ screamed Bain, running towards the lake, splashing into the shallows. ‘That’s my dad up there! We have to help him!’ 

‘Stay!’ called Ithilrian, her voice low and stern. ‘We cannot go back now.’ 

‘But you don’t understand! That’s my father up there!’ Bain hurtled back towards the boat, tugging at it fruitlessly, only to be fielded by Fili and lifted bodily off the ground. The young boy kicked and squirmed, but he was no match for the sturdy dwarf.

‘Bain, please!’ called Sigrid, reaching out to her brother, her face streaked with soot and tears. ‘Don’t leave us as well!’ 

‘I won’t,’ he replied thickly, his voice choked with tears. ‘I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.’ They were all gathered on the shoreline: elves, dwarves, and humans alike, each able to do nothing but watch. Arrow after arrow leapt into the sky, only to clatter harmlessly off the dragon’s armored underbelly, until… 

‘What is that?’ gasped Tauriel, at the same time that Legolas jerked forwards and Ithilrian cried out in amazement. Their keener vision allowed them to see what the rest of the people could not. 

‘What is what?’ replied Kili, craning his neck in frustration. ‘Tauriel, what’s happening?’ 

‘He has a black arrow,’ replied Ithilrian breathlessly. ‘But only one.’ 

‘A black arrow?’ Fili leaned forwards eagerly as the dragon sailed over the town once more. ‘That might do it! He might have a chance!’

They paused, watching with bated breath as the dragon spun through the air, his golden scales glittering in the light of the burning town, preparing to swoop down upon the tower. He opened his jaws and flame poured forth, flying faster and faster; until with a horrific grinding, crunching sound, the black arrow hit. It smote deep into Smaug’s chest, its wickedly barbed length vanishing entirely. The dragon loosed a furious howl of rage, vast wings pummeling the air frantically. Higher and higher he climbed, soaring upwards in a dizzying spiral, until with one last fiery gasp… he fell.

‘He did it,’ whispered Tauriel. They watched the dragon tumble out of the air, falling spread-eagled on the town with a bone-shattering _thud_ that made the earth beneath them tremble. ‘He did it. He killed the dragon. Smaug is dead.’ 

‘Da,’ stuttered Bain, holding onto his sisters tightly. ‘Is he all right? He’s going to be all right, isn’t he? He’ll be fine, he has to be!’ 

Ithilrian shook her head, speechless with shock. _Smaug is dead,_ her thoughts repeated, over and over. _The dragon is gone: slain, dead and dark forevermore. It’s done._ She glanced around, taking in the bewildered cheers of the lakemen, the boats that were still coming in to shore, the masses of floating debris that had begun to drift from the ruined town. _This changes everything,_ she thought grimly, watching the red-gold flames dance higher and higher, consuming the final remnants of what was once Laketown. _What do we do now? Where do we go from here?_

‘We should wait here till daylight,’ said Oin beside her, the old healer seeming to read her thoughts. ‘No sense blundering around in the dark. Besides, there’s injured folk that we should tend to. Then we’ll figure out what to do next. Are you all right, lass?’ 

‘Yes.’ She nodded slowly, as the elderly dwarf patted her companionably on the arm, looking up at her appraisingly.

‘No you’re not,’ he said quietly. ‘None of us are. But keep your chin up, eh? We’ll get through this. Just like we did before.’ 

~

The dawn broke sullen and grey. The sky was filled with ragged clouds and the very air tasted oily and bitter, as dark smoke from the smoldering town still spiraled upwards in billowing clouds. Ithilrian and Oin had worked through the night, with help from the others, tending to what injuries they could. Most of the town’s survivors had burns and other wounds caused by the collapsing buildings. Some were treatable with simple salves and hastily torn bandages. But for many, it was already too late. 

‘We have to leave.’ Fili rubbed a weary hand across his brow, leaving a dark smudge of soot. ‘Auntie, we have to go. We need to get to Erebor… to find out…’ he trailed off, looking away, unable to meet Ithilrian’s eye. The unspoken words hung heavily between them, lodging in both the elf and the dwarf’s throats. 

_To find out if the others are still alive,_ thought Ithilrian bitterly. _I won’t believe that they are dead. I cannot. We’ve been through so much; it cannot end like this._ Her chest was tight with worry, her breathing ragged, and her hands were dirty and bruised from helping to haul survivors from the lake. 

‘You are right.’ She sighed, pushing her hair out of her face, raising her eyes to look up at the towering bulk of the mountain. ‘We should head north at once. There is no time to lose.’ 

Fili nodded. ‘I’ll get the others.’ He strode off, shoulders bowed with weariness. Ithilrian watched him beckoning to the other dwarves, her gaze drifting back towards the lakeside, where Bard had finally managed to stumble ashore. _That the man managed to survive is a miracle,_ she thought, watching him embrace his family fiercely. She strode over towards him, nodding in greeting as he held out a hand, shaking hers firmly. He was soaking wet, filthy and singed from the fires; but he held his head up proudly, and his warm dark gaze was steady. 

‘I gather you’ll be leaving us,’ he said. 

‘I will.’ Ithilrian replied. ‘We must go to Erebor. I have to find Thorin, and the others.’ 

Bard shook his head sadly. ‘That is a fool’s errand, Ithilrian. I know you don’t want to hear this: but I am certain that the Company of Thorin Oakenshield perished beneath the feet of Smaug even before he flew to Laketown.’ 

Ithilrian shook her head vehemently. ‘I cannot believe it,’ she replied hoarsely. ‘To lose Thorin now… after everything that’s happened…’ She broke off, swallowing the anxiety that was clawing its way up her throat. ‘Goodbye and good luck, Bard the Dragonslayer,’ she muttered, smiling sadly at the man before turning and walking slowly away. Fili, Kili and Oin were waiting for her. Beside them stood Legolas and Tauriel, hovering uncertainly on the edge of the survivor’s makeshift camp. 

‘You are going to Erebor?’ said Legolas, as Ithilrian arrived. 

‘We are,’ she replied. ‘What about you?’ 

The wood elf shrugged. ‘I have spoken with messengers from my father. I have asked him to send aid to the refugees here.’ 

‘So you return to the Greenwood?’ asked Ithilrian, glancing between Legolas and Tauriel. The auburn-haired elf was shifting awkwardly, deliberately not meeting Kili’s beseeching gaze. 

‘Not yet.’ Legolas met Ithilrian’s eyes, holding his head up defiantly. ‘I have considered everything you told me yesterday. I believe you are right: war is brewing. Especially now that the dragon is dead. Before long, the news will spread; and many eyes will turn towards the mountain.’ He scowled. ‘The orcs that attacked us in Laketown. The ones bearing the mark of Gundabad. I must know if they are a lone force, or the vanguard of a fresh invasion.’

Ithilrian nodded agreement. ‘So what do you intend to do?’ 

Legolas hesitated. ‘I will ride to Gundabad,’ he said softly. ‘I have advised my father to send scouts, but he will not likely do it. He will say what he always does: that the problems of other realms are not his concern.’ The wood elf scowled. ‘So I shall go myself.’ 

‘I will come too.’ Tauriel spoke up, her eyes flashing defiantly. ‘You cannot do this alone, _hîr vuin._ I will accompany you north.’ 

‘Thank you.’ Legolas glanced sideways, his blue eyes softening in the face of Tauriel’s determined stare. ‘The messengers left horses for us,’ he added. ‘Come.’ 

‘One moment.’ Ithilrian stepped forwards, inclining her head towards Tauriel. ‘A word?’ 

Tauriel nodded, following Ithilrian. She halted some short distance from the small group, and turned to face the woodland elf. 

‘You are fond of Kili.’ Ithilrian spoke without preamble, too tired to dither around the issue. ‘I have seen the way you look at him; and the way he looks at you. Is there something between you?’ 

Tauriel hesitated, clasping and unclasping her hands nervously. ‘I… think so,’ she murmured softly. ‘He looks at me and sees not just a lowly silvan elf, but… a friend. A comrade. Possibly more.’ 

‘I see.’ Ithilrian sighed wearily. ‘I am fully aware that I am the last person who should we warning you against falling in love with a mortal. So all I will say is: make sure that this is truly your heart’s calling, before committing yourself. To do otherwise is to invite nothing but grief. Dwarves are not like us; they do not feel the pull towards the other half of their souls. A life-bond is not guaranteed.’ 

‘I understand.’ Tauriel nodded slowly.

‘Good.’ Ithilrian smiled sadly, placing a comforting hand on Tauriel’s arm. ‘Good luck,’ she murmured softly. ‘Kili is a good dwarf. A little rambunctious at times, but… he has a strong, true heart. He is also my honorary nephew.’ She glanced over towards the little group waiting for them. The dwarves were talking among themselves. Legolas was standing, aloof from the rest, determinedly trying not to look like he was eavesdropping. ‘Say your farewells to him,’ she added quietly. ‘We will give you privacy.’ 

They returned to the group, Ithilrian pulling Legolas and the other two dwarves away as Tauriel stooped to speak with Kili. She deliberately turned away from the murmured exchange, clenching her hands tightly, fear and worry welling up within her once more at the thought of Thorin: who could be lying dead within the mountain even now, trampled beneath the feet of the dragon, or burnt into nothing but ashes and bones on the cold, lonely mountainside…

_No,_ she thought furiously, trying to banish her morbid thoughts. But the images would not leave her. Her hands were shaking as she tried to quell her rising panic, remembering the vision she had seen in Galadriel’s mirror of Thorin gasping out his last breath. _No!_ her inner thought screamed. _It will not come to that! It cannot have already happened!_

She snarled in wordless frustration, running her fingers through her silver braids in anguish. She ignored the surprised looks from the others, pacing impatiently, ignoring the fatigue that pulled at her aching limbs. 

‘I’m ready. Let’s go.’ Kili had hurried over, rejoining the group once more. He was trying to sound nonchalant, but the light in his eyes and his wide, beaming smile told Ithilrian everything she needed to know. 

‘Come then,’ she sighed, striding towards the small boat that would take them up the lake, to the north shore. ‘The sooner we leave, the sooner we’ll arrive. Then we’ll know for certain who lives, and who does not.’ 

~

It was a long trek. Already exhausted by the frantic pace of the night’s events, Ithilrian and the dwarves walked as swiftly as they could overland, scaling the mountain’s foothills, moving ever closer to Erebor. They passed by the ruins of Dale, skirting the desolate shell in gloomy silence. In her mind’s eye Ithilrian imagined the destruction of the town as they walked. She could almost hear the screams of the dying, the roar of the dragon; smell the ashes and smoke and the stench of burning flesh. 

_No, not Dale: that was Laketown,_ her inner thought reminded her. _That’s a memory, not a vision. One you would do well to try and forget._ She clenched her fists, averting her gaze, relieved when the ruined town was behind them. 

It was only a relatively short distance between Dale and Erebor. The great dwarven gates loomed before them, mighty and impressive… _and broken,_ realized Ithilrian, shading her eyes against the glare of the sun. The statues either side were intact; but the gates themselves were pulverized, as though something very large, and very angry, had barreled straight through them. _Smaug,_ she thought grimly. _This is where he must have left the mountain._

The small group was silent as they approached the gates. Grim looks were exchanged once the extent of the damage became clear. As if by unspoken agreement they all began to walk faster, until by the time they passed under the shattered remains of the dwarven doors they were all running, heedless of any danger, driven by the desperate need to find their friends and family.

‘Thorin!’ Ithilrian called, her voice resonant in the vast cavernous silence of the entrance hall. _‘Thorin!’_

The only answer was the dismal echo of her own voice. The hall was dark, cold, and lifeless. She glanced around frantically, catching Kili’s eye. 

‘Maybe they’re further in?’ the young dwarf ventured. ‘Perhaps they’re all down a level or two, by the treasury.’ 

Ithilrian nodded, desperately clinging on to any fragments of hope as she allowed Fili to lead the way through the winding passages of Erebor. Though he had never laid eyes on the underground citadel, Fili strode through the halls with utmost confidence, like a prince returning to his kingdom. At any other time Ithilrian would have paused to admire the beauty of Erebor: the vast halls of gold-veined stone, the wonders of the intricate dwarven carving, the craftsmanship that was evident everywhere she looked. But fear had her in its vice-like grip, and all she could think was: _Thorin. Please, let him be alive. Let us not be too late._

‘Stop!’

A shrill voice halted them all in their tracks. Bilbo had appeared, seemingly out of nowhere, panting and waving an arm desperately. 

‘Bilbo! You’re alive!’ yelled Kili delightedly, sweeping the protesting hobbit into a hug. ‘Where are the others? Is everyone okay? What happened?’ 

‘We’re fine. But you have to get out of here. We all have to leave, right now.’ Bilbo was frantic, hopping from one foot to the other as he disentangled himself from Kili’s embrace. 

‘Why? What’s the matter?’ asked Fili quickly. ‘What’s wrong?’ 

‘It’s Thorin. There’s something wrong with him.’ 

‘What?’ Ithilrian snapped, grasping the hobbit’s sleeve urgently. ‘Bilbo, tell me what’s happening.’ 

The hobbit stuttered, taking several deep, calming breaths. ‘It’s the treasure. It’s like there’s a… a curse, or a sickness on it, or something. I think it’s driving Thorin mad. He’s been down there since… I don’t know. He doesn’t eat. He doesn’t sleep. He… wait! Where are you going?’ 

Ithilrian did not wait to here the rest of Bilbo’s words. She took off at a dead run, threading her way through Erebor’s dim passageways, following the sound of footsteps and dim echo of voices, allowing her preternatural senses to guide her towards the treasure room. Dimly she was aware of the others following her, of the thunder of dwarven boots upon the stone as she ran down a steep flight of steps.

‘Thorin!’ she called. ‘Thorin, where are you?’ She halted as the steps ended, opening out into a broad, sweeping balcony overlooking the treasure room. It was vast beyond imagining, filled with gold and precious gems beyond count, winking and glimmering in the flickering torchlight. But Ithilrian had eyes only for the figure standing in the middle of it all, his head held high, his eyes glittering like sapphires in the midst of a sea of gold. 

‘Welcome to Erebor. My kingdom.’ Thorin’s voice was a low rumble that echoed around the vast pillared hall like distant thunder. He spread his arms wide. Ithilrian did not even hesitate. She ignored the winding steps leading downwards, choosing instead to simply vault over the balcony. She landed before Thorin in a shower of gold coins. 

‘Thorin,’ she breathed, stretching her hand towards him. He closed the distance between them in a heartbeat, his eyes blazing as he reached for her. She stooped, throwing her arms around his shoulders with a low cry, unable to contain the wild relief rushing through her at the feel of his warm weight in her arms, the heavy press of his body against hers. 

‘Ithilrian,’ he growled out, flexing his powerful shoulders and sweeping her clean off her feet, gripping the slender elf so tightly that Ithilrian could feel her flesh bruising beneath the strength of his fingers. But she did not care. He was alive: and at that moment, that was all that mattered. His warm, smoky scent enveloped her, and before she knew it he had pushed her up against the nearest pillar, pressing his mouth to hers in a fierce, desperate kiss. There was no gentleness this time; nothing but tongue and lips and teeth as he devoured her mouth with a desperate, urgent hunger. Ithilrian shuddered and groaned beneath the ferocity of his embrace, allowing him to take what he needed from her, gasping against his mouth as blessed relief washed over her in a warm wave. She threaded her hands through his hair, a low sob escaping her throat as she felt the strong, steady beating of his heart even through the layers of leather and mail. 

‘Thorin,’ she whispered, when he finally released her mouth. She butted him gently with her forehead, as if to make sure that he was truly real; to be certain that she wasn’t dreaming. ‘I feared you were dead,’ she choked out, holding on to him tightly. 

‘And I feared the same for you,’ he replied, the breath rasping in his throat. ‘When the dragon left for Laketown… I thought the worst. We saw the fires. The town, burning. I was certain you had all perished. That I had lost you.’ 

‘You haven’t lost me yet,’ she whispered softly, nuzzling him with her nose. ‘Thorin, my love. I have missed you.’ 

‘I missed you too.’ He pressed his nose against her, placing a rasping kiss at the base of her throat. ‘There is much we have to do,’ he murmured, lips pressed against her neck. 

‘I know,’ replied Ithilrian gently. ‘We have a great deal of work before us, my heart.’ 

‘It can wait.’ Thorin growled softly, trailing his fingers down her side, placing another kiss at the neck of her tunic, nuzzling it open to set his teeth against her collarbone. ‘I need you, Ithilrian. I want to touch you… to join with you once again…’ His hands were gripping her hips, pulling her flush against him as he pressed her against the pillar once more, fingers digging painfully into her hipbones. 

‘Thorin, wait! Stop!’ she gasped. ‘We’re in the middle of the hall! What are you doing?’ She cupped his cheek carefully, raising his head to look into his eyes. They were wide and dark with barely-suppressed need. But there was something else there: a shadow that she had not seen before. It vanished in an instant; but the memory of it remained. 

‘I… am sorry,’ said Thorin slowly, releasing her and taking a careful pace away, shaking his head as though to dislodge something. ‘I don’t know what I was…’ He swallowed hard and looked back up at her, his eyes losing their ferocity as a gentle smile crept slowly over his face. ‘I am relieved to see you safe and well, _ghivashel.’_

‘Likewise, _a’maelamin.’_ Ithilrian smiled, placing a soft kiss on her dwarf’s forehead. ‘Come,’ she added gently. ‘Bilbo mentioned that you’ve yet to eat. We have worked through the night, and walked through the day to be here. I am both famished and exhausted. I expect the others are too.’ She took his arm encouragingly. ‘Let us find somewhere else to rest,’ she added. ‘The stench of dragon still lingers in this hall.’ 

‘I… yes, of course,’ murmured Thorin, shaking his head again. ‘The upper balcony. That’s where we left our supplies. Come, I’ll show you the way.’ He reached for her hand and she took it, squeezing tightly as she allowed him to lead her out of the hall. Her heart was pounding. A dizzying wave of relief, coupled with a fresh fear, washed over her. _At least this will get him out of the treasury,_ she thought, Bilbo’s panicked words from before still fresh in her mind. 

_The dragon sickness,_ she thought bitterly. _Is that what that shadow was? That look in his eyes?_ She rubbed at the bruises newly forming on her arm absent-mindedly, noticing the lingering backwards glance Thorin gave the treasure as they paused at the entrance. She tugged at him gently, offering him a faint smile, hoping that it showed nothing of the anxiety welling up within her. _He will not succumb,_ she told herself firmly, trying to will away the worry gnawing at her gut. _He is strong. He can fight it. He has the strength of will to overcome the dreadful lure of the gold. I know that he does._

~


	42. Erebor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Thorin begins to realise the danger he is in.

Thorin’s heart was pounding as he threaded his way through Erebor’s intricate winding corridors. Ithilrian’s hand was upon his arm, its warm slight weight a gentle anchor to the world around him. _But what about the Arkenstone?_ a whisper at the back of his mind insisted. _It’s out there, somewhere in the treasury; we have to go back! We have to find it!_

He shook himself irritably. There will be time for that later, he told himself sternly. He glanced up at the elf-woman beside him, meeting her pale grey gaze, feeling relief welling up within him. He’d been forced to turn away from the sight of Smaug setting Laketown ablaze, unable to watch the town going up in smoke. He’d left her there; he’d left his nephews too. If they had died in the dragonfire, it would have been his fault. 

_But they’re not dead,_ his inner thought reminded him. _They’re all here, in Erebor, alive and well. Ithilrian is here now._ He felt a familiar surge of warmth flood through him, and he tightened his hand on Ithilrian’s arm. Seeing her arrive suddenly in the treasury, leaping from the balcony and into the sea of gold, had been almost too much for him. As a sudden bright light she had appeared to him, her hair shimmering in Erebor’s cavernous gloom, surrounded by the glitter and tinkle of trickling coins. His breath quickened at the memory of it; how his imagination had immediately run wild, bringing up images of her seated in pride of place in his treasury, wearing nothing but gold and precious gems, safe behind the locked and bolted doors, her beauty shining for him, and him alone…

 _No,_ a small inner voice whispered doubtfully. _That’s not right, is it?_ He wanted to love and cherish her, to marry her and make her his queen: not to keep her locked away with nothing but cold stones and bright metals for company. He groaned internally and rubbed his brow. He could feel a headache coming on. 

‘Here we are,’ he said, stepping into the upper chamber they’d cleared of fallen debris, where their remaining packs and bedrolls had been laid out. ‘There isn’t much,’ he added. ‘Water and cram is pretty much all we have remaining. But it will have to do until we can find some proper food.’ 

Ithilrian nodded sadly. ‘What supplies I had were lost in the firestorm,’ she said quietly. ‘There was no time to pack up our baggage. We were lucky to even make it out, Thorin.’ She glanced behind her, her expression softening at the sight of the rest of the Company, who had followed them up to the hall for some much needed rest. Thorin looked away, feeling a slight stirring of guilt in the pit of his stomach. He had been pushing them all too hard over the past few days. Since Smaug’s demise he had dragged everybody into the treasury without a moment’s rest, to sift through the endless gold in search of the Arkenstone. 

_But that’s what I should be doing, isn’t it?_ He thought. _We should be looking for it. We need to find it. Without it, I’m just another lowly dwarf lord: not the true King of Erebor. I need that jewel!_ A strange, gnawing anxiety flared within him. He bit his lip, trying to resist the sudden, almost overwhelming urge to get up and go, to run back to the treasury, to resume his search for the heart of the mountain. 

‘Thorin?’ Ithilrian’s voice sounded gently in his ear. She was standing beside him, concern flickering over her face for a moment, before it was replaced with a small, faint smile. 

‘It’s nothing.’ He returned her smile, rummaging in his pack for a flask of water and a packet of waybread. ‘It isn’t much,’ he added, handing it over. ‘But you look like you could use it.’ 

‘My thanks.’ She lowered herself gently to the floor, sitting cross-legged, taking a deep pull at the waterflask. She looked even paler than usual, her skin almost white in the dim glow of Erebor’s caverns. Her clothes were damp and stained with smoke. A smudge of soot upon her cheek, as well as the slightly singed ends of her silver braids, were all testimony to just how close she had come to the fiery heat of the dragon’s wrath. A sudden wave of nausea rose up unexpectedly within him. _It is too much,_ he thought suddenly. _The same inferno that took my home and destroyed my people, almost took away that which I love: all that I have left…_

The breath rasped in his throat and he glanced sideways at Fili and Kili. His nephews had settled on Ithilrian’s left. They kept close together, sharing the water that Ithilrian passed them, munching quietly on the cram without their habitual jollity. All three of them looked tired and strained. With another wave of horror, he recognized their joint expressions. It was exactly the same as the one that had been on the faces of all the dwarves who had survived the fall of Erebor: shellshock and exhaustion, combined with the lingering horror of the memory of dragonfire and ruin. 

‘What happened?’ he asked quietly. ‘In Laketown. Tell me.’ 

Kili shuddered, but remained silent. Fili glanced anxiously between his uncle and brother, hesitating before replying. 

‘It was horrible,’ he admitted in a low voice. ‘We heard Smaug coming, like thunder in the distance, and saw the fire leaping up from the mountain. The place was full of people panicking and screaming.’ He gulped. ‘Not many of them got out,’ he muttered. ‘The dragon burned the entire town, right down to the surface of the lake. If it hadn’t been for Bard, we’d never had gotten out in time either.’ 

‘Bard?’ echoed Thorin. ‘Who is that?’ 

‘A man of Laketown,’ replied Fili. ‘We met him just after you’d left, Uncle. He gave us his boat to get to shore. He was the one who stayed behind and shot the dragon. And when the orcs attacked before, he helped us to fight them off.’ 

‘Orcs?’ Thorin raised his eyebrows, his breath hitching anxiously. ‘Do Azog and his pack still follow us, then?’ 

‘We saw no sign of Azog in Laketown.’ Ithilrian spoke softly, keeping her grey eyes fixed upon his. ‘But I feel certain that his command was behind the attack. Legolas recognized the brand that some of the creatures bore. He says it is the mark of Gundabad.’

‘The orc mountain in the north?’ Thorin raised his eyebrows skeptically. ‘And how would the wood elf have knowledge of that?’ 

‘Because in another age, his people waged war on that land,’ replied Ithilrian quietly. ‘Much elvish blood has been spilled there, _hîr vuin._ It is the last great orc stronghold north of the Misty Mountains.’ 

‘Hmpf.’ Thorin grunted, scowling. ‘Let them stay there, then. Let them rot.’ 

‘If only that were possible.’ Ithilrian sighed deeply. ‘Legolas fears that the strike against us in Laketown was the vanguard of another orc incursion. With the peoples of these lands as scattered and isolated as they are, such an attack would be disastrous. The whole of the North could potentially fall, if their numbers were strong enough.’ 

Thorin groaned. ‘You believe we should treat Gundabad as a potential threat?’

‘Yes.’ Ithilrian nodded. ‘I know it is not what you wish to hear, _a’maelamin._ But I see little point in sugarcoating hard truths. If war is coming we must be prepared. And I fear that the death of the dragon will mean that many eyes will turn towards Erebor, now that they believe that the mountain is empty, and the great wealth of Durin’s folk lies unguarded.’ 

‘It is not unguarded,’ snarled Thorin, a spasm of rage rising swiftly within him. ‘We are here. This gold is ours, sorely won with the blood of my people. I will defend it with my last breath.’ 

Ithilrian hesitated. ‘You will defend… the gold, _hîr vuin?_ Or your people’s home?’ she asked, seeming to choose her words slowly and carefully. 

‘Both,’ snapped Thorin impatiently. He tried to ignore the worry that he glimpsed briefly in Ithilrian’s eyes. _Stupid elf, what does she know?_ The thought flickered briefly within him, gone almost as swiftly as it had come. But the memory of it remained, like a bitter taste upon his tongue. 

‘Of course.’ The elf’s expression was serene once more, as she leaned back on her heels and rested her head against the stone. Thorin shifted uncomfortably, disliking the mask of impassivity that had seemed to settle over Ithilrian’s face. 

‘So… Bard is the man who killed the dragon?’ he said, grasping at something to fill the silence. Behind them, he could hear the rest of the Company, murmuring contentedly among themselves. But instead of soothing him, it only served to enunciate the sudden, awkward quiet that had descended between himself and the grey elf. 

‘Yes.’ Kili nodded, glancing between his uncle and Ithilrian worriedly. ‘We all saw it, Uncle. He used a black arrow. He shot Smaug from the top of Laketown’s bell tower.’

‘He is a descendant of Girion,’ added Fili, leaning forwards conspiratorially. ‘You know Uncle, the old Lord of Dale from the days before the dragon. But despite that, Bard is just a fisherman. He didn’t seem to have any proper authority in the town at all.’ 

‘He will soon,’ murmured Ithilrian quietly. ‘Think on it. He remained behind to defend his home, even in the face of certain destruction. And against the odds, he has succeeded. The dragon is dead. Who do you think the survivors from Laketown will rally to, in their hour of need? Whose voice do you think they will heed?’ Her grey eyes turned towards Thorin, fixing him with a gentle stare. ‘I believe the men will unite under his leadership, Thorin. Just as the dwarves united beneath yours, so many years ago.’

‘You may be right,’ grunted Thorin reluctantly. ‘That doesn’t necessarily mean the man will be a good leader, though.’

‘Perhaps. Only time will tell us that.’ Ithilrian raised her arms above her head and stretched. ‘Time,’ she murmured softly, as if to herself. ‘What time do we yet have? How long before every armed host in Middle Earth comes knocking on your door, eager to seize Erebor for themselves? What chance will our small company have if the orcs come streaming down from the north?’ 

‘It will not come to that,’ replied Thorin fiercely, reaching out and grasping her hand. ‘I have sent word to my cousin Dain, who is Lord of the Iron Hills. He is on his way, with enough dwarves to defend the mountain, should anyone try to take it from us by force.’ His grip tightened, and he smiled grimly. ‘I have already lost my home once, Ithilrian. I do not intend to lose it again.’ 

‘I believe you,’ the elf murmured, her voice barely audible. A small smile appeared on the elf’s face. ‘You are home again, Thorin Oakenshield. That part of your quest is now over.’ She lowered her head in a simple half-bow. ‘All hail Thorin, King Under the Mountain,’ she added softly. ‘May you rule long and wisely, _hîr vuin.’_

‘I…’ Thorin mouthed soundlessly for a moment. ‘Thank you.’ 

Ithilrian’s smile widened, her grey eyes softening as she looked at him fondly. ‘I can see why you longed to return here,’ she added. ‘Erebor is beautiful.’ 

‘It is the only true home I have ever known.’ A sudden, fierce pride bloomed within Thorin. He scrambled to his feet, holding out a hand invitingly. ‘Come,’ he added gruffly. ‘Let me show you. You’ve barely seen a fraction of the kingdom so far. There is much work that needs to be done, of course. The dragon did a lot of damage. But there are places as yet untouched that I think you’d like to see. After all…’ _You’ll be the queen of it one day,_ his inner thought added. But the words seemed to sit strangely on his tongue, awkwardly, as though they no longer quite fitted the vision of the future he was building in his mind. He could not bring himself to say them aloud. 

‘Very well.’ Ithilrian smiled curiously, rising to her feet. ‘I must admit, I am excited to see more of it. I paid scant attention when we first arrived, as our main concern was finding out if you and the Company still lived.’ She glanced around, smiling warmly at the sight of the dwarves and the hobbit chattering quietly. 

‘Then follow me.’ Thorin offered her his arm, pleased when she took it without question. The rest of the dwarves barely gave them a glance as he led her away. He picked up a torch and walked her slowly down the narrow halls, a warm sense of delight filling him as he watched her. She reached out wonderingly to run tentative fingers along the veins of gold that ran through the dark green stone itself, her eyes wide and bright with delight. He steered her towards the largest audience chamber, knowing that it was designed to impress upon newcomers the sheer might and wealth of Erebor. He was not disappointed. Her lips parted in an astounded gasp, her head craning back to look up to the vast heights of the great carven hall, supported by glittering pillars of stone. 

‘Thorin,’ she whispered, her voice seeming to float away into the great empty space. ‘Thorin, your home is beautiful.’ 

He nodded, his throat tight, unable to speak for a moment. The torch wavered in his hand. ‘I remember this room from the days of old,’ he muttered eventually. ‘Lit by the fires of a hundred crystal lamps, throwing light and shadow over the gleaming stones and bright jewels. You see here only an echo of its former majesty.’ 

She turned to look down at him, her face creasing into a tender smile as she reached out to touch his shoulder lightly. ‘Then let me risk a little more light.’ She raised one slender hand, closing her eyes momentarily and breathing deeply. Thorin felt his jaw drop as a faint, pale radiance began to shine from her. The light drifted upwards, even to the very roof of the enormous cavern, throwing the intricate carvings and veins of gold into sharp, brilliant relief. 

‘How did you…?’ he breathed in wonderment, gazing around at the sudden brightness of his ancient halls. It lasted only a few brief, wonderful moments; before the radiance dimmed, and the great hall was shrouded in darkness once more. His flickering torch seemed a poor light in comparison. He turned to look at Ithilrian in astonishment, reaching out swiftly as the elf seemed for falter, supporting her carefully with one arm around her waist. She leaned into him gratefully.

‘This place is enormous,’ she murmured, her voice resonant in the vast chamber. ‘Everything is so much larger than I imagined it would be. It makes me feel very small, _a’maelamin.’_

‘Me too.’ Thorin nodded, raising his head to gaze up at the giant carven figures that lined the edges of the room. ‘These are the statues of our ancestors,’ he murmured, pointing out the various stern-faced dwarves, their likenesses carved into the very living rock. ‘To the left there is Dain the First, my grandfather’s father. And there, three statues to the right, is Thorin the First: the king I was named after. I will be the second of that name to take the Durin throne.’ 

Ithilrian smiled softly. ‘Do dwarves often re-use such names then, for their royal lines?’ 

‘We do.’ Thorin glanced at her in surprise. ‘Names such as these carry both weight and history,’ he said. ‘They are sacred to us, passed down from one generation to the next, as a part of our legacy. Why? Do your people not do the same?’ 

‘No.’ Ithilrian shook her head. ‘Elves live forever, my lord Thorin. What would be the point?’ She raised her eyes to the towering statues above her. ‘Each of our names mean something different in our ancient tongue,’ she said softly. ‘It is given to that person as a reflection of who they are; or who they may become.’

‘I see.’ Thorin felt himself frowning. He did not want to be reminded of the vast gulf of ages that lay between himself and Ithilrian. He had almost managed to forget; to persuade himself that he and she were alike in their experiences, and their count of years. But to hear her reminding him of her immortality stirred up a ripple of bitterness within his heart. A dark shadow seemed to fall on him. _A hundred years is but the blink of an eye in the life of an elf,_ he thought angrily. _What will she do when I am dead and gone, nothing but bones and dust in a mountain tomb? Will she remain faithful to my memory? For how long? Will she betray me; find somebody else, a lover to replace me? Another dwarf, or a fellow elf perhaps?_ The breath seized in his throat. The memory of the way Thranduil had stared at Ithilrian back in Mirkwood was clawing at him. _He has only to be patient,_ his inner thought snarled. _He has only to wait until I am dead and out of the way._

‘Thorin?’ the elf’s voice reached him, laced with gentle concern. ‘Are you well, _veleth nîn?’_

He swallowed hard, pulling himself together with great effort. ‘It is nothing,’ he snapped, rubbing a hand over his brow, as his headache pulsed and throbbed painfully. ‘Come on,’ he added gruffly, turning away so that she could not see the expression on his face. 

They wandered through the corridors in silence. Thorin’s thoughts were still buzzing angrily. He felt unable to throw off the shadow that had descended upon him at her words. It seemed to coil and swirl around him like a dark, dank mist, blurring his mind, embittering his thoughts. Ithilrian’s arm was still around him; but he could not feel it. Her footsteps were utterly silent upon the cold stone. If it wasn’t for the sight of her beside him, still glimmering faintly silver in the shadows, he could have well believed that she was not even there at all. 

‘This is the throne room?’ Ithilrian glanced around as the passageway opened up into another enormous cavern, her voice echoing through the vast gulf of emptiness. ‘So this is where you will rule from, Thorin.’ 

‘Yes.’ Thorin struggled to speak, his throat suddenly tight as they crossed the high, arching walkway, passing beneath the gold-veined spires, past the carvings studded with many different colored gems, all glittering and winking beneath a fine layer of dust. His feet were drawn inevitably towards the empty throne at the heart of the chamber. Memories were tugging at him: the last time he had seen his grandfather, seated in that very throne; his father standing beside him, proud yet filled with worry, as the dragon sickness seemed to draw Thrór ever more tightly into its deadly embrace…

 _The dragon sickness._ Thorin scowled ferociously, shaking the thought away impatiently. _It’s fine,_ he thought determinedly. _I’ve got it under control. It may have taken Thrór: but I am not my grandfather. I am stronger than he was._ He raised his eyes to the cracked and hollow space just above the throne, where the Arkenstone had sat all those years ago. He traced the empty carving with a single, trembling finger. 

‘The heart of the mountain,’ he whispered softly. ‘The Arkenstone. We must find it, Ithilrian. We _must_ find it.’ He turned towards her, trying to convey the depth of his sincerity; the desperate need that rose up swiftly and grasped him by the throat. ‘Do you understand me?’ he added urgently.

The elf turned her head slightly. He trembled slightly beneath the sudden intense scrutiny of her strange pale gaze. It was as though her eyes were boring right into him, piercing his very soul. 

‘I understand,’ she said softly, sadly. Her voice was barely audible. ‘I understand more than you know, _hîr vuin.’_

‘What would you know about it?’ he replied suddenly, unable to keep the harsh, grating scorn from his voice. ‘Nothing! I do not believe a mere _elf_ would have a proper understanding of such things.’ He breathed out hard, shaking his head bewilderedly. ‘I’m sorry,’ he added swiftly, pressing a trembling hand over his mouth. ‘I… do not know why I just said that.’ 

‘I do.’ Ithilrian stepped closer, reaching out one tentative hand to trace the line of his cheek. ‘It’s the dragon sickness, Thorin. It’s trying to take hold of you. You have to fight it.’ 

‘I know what I must do,’ snarled Thorin; but despite the swift surge of rage that burned like fire in his belly, he could not help but lean into her touch. Her hand was cool and soothing on his skin, like a balm for his fraying nerves. A sudden, unexpected sob rose up in his throat as the anger suddenly died, to be replaced with a dull, cold terror. ‘Please,’ he whispered, leaning further forward, tears stinging his eyes. ‘Help me.’ 

‘I am trying, my love,’ she murmured. His chest tightened painfully at the sound of the tears in her voice. ‘The strength of your will is being tested, _hervenn._ I can see the shadow trying to wrap itself around your heart even now. You _must_ overcome it, else all will come to darkness; and your city to ruin.’ She knelt before him on the dusty stone, both hands cupping his face, tilting it so he was looking directly into her eyes. They burned with a ferocity he had never seen before, blazing brightly, cutting through the deepening shadows that swirled before his vision. _‘A si i-dhúath ú-orthor Thorin,’_ she whispered. ‘Summon your courage. I _know_ you have the strength within you to fight; and to win.’ 

‘Ithilrian,’ he managed to stutter, tasting her name in his mouth like a cooling draft of sweet water after a long drought. ‘Ithilrian.’ He felt his hands shaking as she leaned forwards with infinite gentleness, tilting his head back slightly and kissing his lips with such tenderness that he trembled against her. He repeated her name in his mind over and over, as though the sound of it alone could ward off the darkness; like a prayer spoken to the Valar against the encroaching night. His hands tightened on her tunic, until he was holding onto her like a lifeline; like she was the only solid being in a mountain filled with ghosts.

Suddenly, footsteps rang loudly on the stone, approaching from behind them. ‘Thorin!’ a gruff voice called. It was Dwalin. ‘Survivors from Laketown,’ the tough dwarf added. ‘They’re streaming into Dale.’ 

Thorin raised his head. A low rumble of anger rippled through him. _They think to come to my mountain, and steal my riches?_ An inner voice snarled immediately. _They are but the first of many; and they shall be swiftly repelled._

‘To the gates,’ he snapped. He pulled himself upright, barely glancing at Ithilrian. He swallowed hard, wondering why he had felt so weak, so afraid a mere moment ago. This was his mountain; and he was strong. He was king. These men would bow before him, just as their ancestors had done to his grandfather. 

He stalked off towards the gates, following Dwalin’s broad silhouette as they cut through the passages towards the upper levels. He was dimly aware of the elf following them, one grey shadow among the many that crowded around him, just out of reach of the guttering torchlight. _Let her come if she wishes,_ he thought. _She shall see how a true king handles such affairs._

Dwalin had been correct. From Erebor’s lofty battlements he could easily see the straggling columns of bedraggled-looking men and women filing into the ancient ruins of Dale. They appeared to be settling in small groups, huddling together around meager cooking fires. _Good,_ Thorin thought grimly. _That gives us the day and the night to prepare._

‘To the gates,’ he said aloud, noticing that the rest of the Company had gathered on the battlements as well. ‘Bring stone and steel, any tools you can lay hands upon! I want those doors fully fortified and ready to stand against an assault by dawn!’ 

~ 

Ithilrian stood unnoticed in the shadows, watching the dwarves work. A part of her was filled with admiration for the way they moved, working as a team, easily able to lift enormous chunks of solid stone as though they were no more than feather pillows. The rest of her was filled with dread. Thorin was moving like one possessed, grasping the great stone blocks easily, building the fortifications higher and higher, grazing his knuckles and splintering his nails unheedingly as he worked at a frantic pace, forcing the rest of the company to keep up with him. 

She had not managed to exchange a single word with Thorin since the throne room. _Since he almost came back from the brink,_ she thought sadly. _He is fighting it. I know he is fighting still._ But the burning anger that had clouded the dwarf’s blue eyes when he heard about the lakemen had sent cold fear shivering numbly down her spine; as had the harsh, scornful words he’d spoken to her before. 

_That was not my Thorin,_ she thought grimly. _That was not the dwarf I know and love. It was the sickness speaking. It had to be._

She stepped back warily, knowing that none of the dwarves could see her as she melted into the shadows. She wandered disconsolately through the abandoned passageway. _What can I do to help?_ she thought. _It will come down to the strength of his will alone. Can my power do anything aid him? Is it possible to draw the sickness from him, as poison is drawn from a wound? Or will I be helpless in the face of his oncoming madness; able to do nothing but watch as the shadow of the dragon settles over his mind and heart?_ She sat with her back against a wall, closing her eyes, resting her head on her hands. _What grace is given me, let it pass to him,_ she thought desperately. _Let him be spared. Save him._

‘Miss Ithilrian?’ 

A gentle voice in the shadows startled her. So wrapped up in her thoughts had she been, that she had barely noticed Balin approach. The white-bearded dwarf was smiling kindly, his brown eyes twinkling as he settled himself beside her. 

‘All this hauling of stone is bad for my old bones,’ he said, by way of explanation. ‘I reckon the younger ones can manage without my help for a bit.’ He pulled a stubby wooden pipe from somewhere in his jacket, and set about filling it from a small leather pouch. Ithilrian smiled at the sight. 

‘I did not think any of you had any pipeweed left,’ she said quietly. ‘I can still remember Bilbo’s face when his ran out before Mirkwood. I’ve never seen a hobbit look more utterly desolate.’ 

Balin chuckled. ‘Aye, well I smoke less than most folk. Usually it’s only if I’m feeling worried; or need to think a few things over. Like now.’ He finished tamping down the tobacco, glancing up at her as he spoke. ‘From the look on your face, you know what I’m planning to say,’ he added softly, reaching for a match. The sudden flame sputtered and flared briefly, lighting the old dwarf’s face in sharp relief for a moment. 

‘Perhaps.’ Ithilrian watched the plumes of blue-grey smoke coiling up from the bowl of Balin’s pipe. ‘I suspect it is the same thing that has us both concerned, my friend.’ 

‘Not just you,’ a small voice interrupted. Bilbo had approached the pair unnoticed, stepping out from the shadows as if he had simply appeared from nowhere. ‘I’m not exactly built for moving heavy rocks,’ he added, smiling nervously. ‘I doubt the others will notice I’m gone for a bit.’ He glanced sharply at Balin. ‘Pipeweed?’ he said incredulously. ‘You still have some left?’ 

Balin had the good grace to look slightly embarrassed as he nodded, hesitating before offering Bilbo his pouch. ‘Fill up your pipe, laddie,’ he said. ‘It looks to me like you could use it.’ 

Ithilrian smiled sadly at the delighted expression on Bilbo’s face. Unfortunately, it was short-lived. Once the diminutive hobbit had filled and lit his own pipe, he turned to them both, his face crinkled in a nervous frown. ‘There’s something wrong, isn’t there,’ he said quietly, his voice sounding very small in the echoing silence. ‘There’s something wrong with Thorin.’ 

‘The dragon sickness.’ Balin shook his head sorrowfully. ‘I’ve seen it before. That terrible _need.’_ He glanced up at Ithilrian. ‘D’you know of what I speak, lass?’ 

‘I do.’ Ithilrian nodded slowly. ‘Thorin spoke of it while we were together in Laketown.’ 

‘He did?’ Balin raised his brows, surprised. ‘What did he tell you?’ 

‘That he feared it,’ replied Ithilrian quietly. ‘That it drove his grandfather mad.’ 

‘Aye, that sounds about the size of it.’ The old dwarf sighed, bowing his head wearily, suddenly looking very much older, and sadder, than he had done a moment before. ‘It is a fierce and jealous madness. No wealth or riches is ever enough. There must always be more. The lust is insatiable; and the rage at the thought of losing any of it – even the smallest trinket – knows no bounds.’ 

Bilbo nodded slowly. ‘Thorin said something that frightened me. Just after he gave me this.’ He plucked at the mail shirt that he wore over his tunic, the gleaming silver metal just visible beneath his grimy blue jacket. ‘He said: I will not part with a single coin. Not one piece of it. That was… those were the exact words that Smaug used.’ The hobbit swallowed hard, glancing nervously between Ithilrian and Balin. ‘What does that mean?’ 

Balin sighed wearily. ‘It means that we can do little but hope, Bilbo. He may have already sunk too far.’ 

‘Oh.’ The hobbit looked down at his hands, frowning slightly as though pondering something. ‘The Arkenstone,’ he added slowly. ‘The jewel Thorin is still looking for. Balin, if he had it… if it was found…’ he trailed off, glancing expectantly between the elf and the dwarf. ‘Would it help?’ 

Balin sighed deeply. ‘I fear not, laddie,’ he said kindly. ‘I fear it would only make him worse.’ He winked briefly at the diminutive hobbit, so swiftly that Ithilrian was unsure as to whether she had seen it or not. ‘Perhaps it is best if the stone remains lost, eh?’ He glanced towards her, one eyebrow raised. Ithilrian inclined her head slightly. A flicker of understanding passed between the three of them; only just in time. The sound of approaching booted feet echoed though the hall towards them, as Thorin strode in grimly, flanked by Dwalin and Bifur.

‘The gates have been fortified.’ The dwarf king swept into the room, clad in the gleaming golden armor he had claimed from Erebor’s war room earlier that day. ‘You would do well to find arms and armor, Balin. You too, elf,’ he added to Ithilrian, his voice hard and stern. ‘That is, so long as you plan to remain with us.’ 

Ithilrian swallowed hard as Thorin left, his blue eyes dark and proud as he swept back towards the treasury. She heard him calling to the others, encouraging them to keep searching through the night for the Arkenstone. _Well, at least now we know he won’t be able to find it any time soon,_ she thought grimly; but her heart gave an anguished twist inside her at the harshness of his words. 

‘Will he not even use my name now?’ she murmured quietly, once he had left. ‘It’s like he barely knows me, when the sickness grips him.’ Balin and Bilbo were both staring at her, pity and trepidation mirrored in their expressions. 

‘I’m sorry lass,’ said Balin quietly. ‘I fear he is too far gone, if even you cannot bring him out of it.’ 

‘I have tried,’ replied Ithilrian. ‘Earlier today, in the throne room. I thought he was coming back; that his reason was returning. But the mere mention of men approaching the mountain was enough to send him spiraling into a fury. It was like watching a shadow descend, too swiftly for me to halt it.’ The breath caught in her throat for a moment as realization struck her, as strong as a physical blow. She clapped one hand over her mouth in horror. ‘By the Valar,’ she whispered numbly. ‘Is this it? Have I lost him already? Please, Balin, tell me it’s still within my power to save him!’ 

‘I don’t know,’ replied Balin wearily, his voice catching in the back of his throat. ‘I don’t have any easy answers for you, I’m afraid.’ He reached out and took her pale slender hand in his old weathered one. ‘I am sorry,’ he intoned softly, shaking his bearded head. ‘I hope… well… if anyone can bring him back, it’s you.’ He pressed her hand gently. ‘Speak with him later, lass. Let him cool off a bit. All we can do now is wait, and hope.’ 

~

Thorin slammed his fist on the carved stone bannister, striding up and down the balcony that overlooked the treasury. ‘It must be here!’ he called down, narrowing his eyes at the dwarves below, still digging though the mounds of treasure. ‘The Arkenstone must be somewhere within this mountain! Keep searching!’ Righteous anger swirled within him. The jewel was his. It belonged to him: he was the king. It was only right that the stone be found. _Preferably before those conniving, thieving lakemen come to try and lay their dirty hands on my gold,_ an inner voice hissed angrily. He descended the stairs, choosing a pile of coins and beginning to dig through it, ignoring the fatigue that pulled at his limbs. _It must be here,_ his thoughts repeated. _I will find it. I will find the Arkenstone, then all must bow before me._

‘Thorin.’ The elf had come to kneel beside him, laying a tentative hand upon his arm, stilling his frantic movements. ‘You must rest, my heart.’

‘I cannot. Not while the stone remains unfound,’ he snapped back angrily. ‘Will you aid me or thwart me, Ithilrian?’

She sighed softly, a sadness seeming to pass across her face. ‘I have always done all in my power to aid you,’ she murmured, her voice pained. ‘I do not intend to falter now.’ She glanced wearily around the cavern. ‘But Thorin, please. Look at the others. Your friends, they are all exhausted. Can you not see? They need to rest before the dawn, even if you do not.’ 

Thorin snarled angrily, pushing his hair out of his eyes. He did not want to admit it; but she was right. Even the usually lively Nori’s movements appeared slow and sluggish. Dark shadows ringed everybody’s eyes. _Maybe they should all get some sleep,_ he thought, scowling. _After all, I will need everyone at their best if the lakemen come in the morning._

‘Very well,’ he replied stiffly, rising to his feet. ‘Get some sleep, all of you!’ he called. ‘I want every dwarf well rested and ready for battle tomorrow.’ He glanced around imperiously, barely noticing the awkward glances the rest of the Company were directing at him as they filed out of the treasure room. 

‘You have your wish,’ he added, as the echoes of the last pair of retreating boots died away. ‘Join them if you have the need.’ He turned back towards the gold, only to be halted once more by a gentle hand on his arm. 

‘I would rather not sleep alone,’ Ithilrian said quietly. ‘I have missed your presence at my side, _hîr vuin._ The night seems long and empty without you.’ Her grip tightened almost imperceptibly on his arm. ‘Come to bed, my love,’ she whispered, her voice seeming to echo through the silent chamber. ‘Come to me, Thorin.’ 

He paused, looking up at her. Even in the dim light of the treasury, she seemed almost to shine faintly, her hair gleaming like _mithril_ against the faint yellow glow of the treasure mounds. He found himself rising for her, desire blooming hot and strong within him at her words. _Mine,_ his inner thought rumbled. _She belongs to me: another piece of my treasure. My prized possession._ He reached out to touch her, threading his fingers through her hair and tugging lightly, bringing her down to his height before surging forwards, crashing his lips against hers. He felt her gentle intake of breath as he kissed her fiercely, possessively; tasting her sweetness, drinking it in, desperate to taste her once again.

‘Thorin,’ she murmured softly, her hands falling to settle around his waist, holding him close. 

‘Ithilrian,’ he rasped out in reply. ‘We are alone. Do not tell me to stop this time.’

‘I did not intend to.’ The elf ran slender fingers over him as he pressed into her, pushing her down amongst the gold, heedless of the extra weight of his armor as coins and trinkets slid all around them. His hands reached beneath her tunic to sweep over the silken skin of her abdomen. He felt the twitch and clench of her muscles beneath him as his hands roved higher, reaching the thick cloth that bound her breasts. 

‘Off,’ he panted hoarsely, tugging at the fabric. ‘Take it off.’ He watched, mesmerized, as she obeyed, pulling the tunic easily over her head, nimble fingers unfastening the silver clasp that held the dark cloth in place. His hands twitched with impatience, unable to wait as she slowly unwound the fabric. He reached forwards and tugged, hard. He let out a pleased grunt when it swiftly unraveled, baring her breasts to his gaze. He surged forwards again, pushing his full weight into her, delighting in the way the gold spilled and trickled over her bare skin as he pressed her into the treasure, his hands finding her breasts. He kissed her hungrily, taking her mouth, before sliding down to her throat. 

‘Thorin,’ she gasped softly, her slender hands pushing at him as he set his teeth to her collarbone. ‘Thorin, I cannot breathe. You’re crushing me.’ 

‘Sorry.’ He pulled back swiftly, his eyes wide and dark at the sight of her, of the way that she shuddered as the gold slid over her skin. He began to unbuckle his armor, his movements growing ever more frantic and impatient. He kicked off his boots and breeches, shrugged off the heavy gauntlets and breastplate, before tearing off the tunic beneath. He pressed forwards once more, sliding both hands down to her hips and removing her leggings and smallclothes in one long, sweeping pull, before bringing his hands back up to her ribs and lifting her breasts up to his mouth, reveling in the press of his lips against her skin. 

‘Ithilrian,’ he murmured softly, finally raising his head to look into her eyes. 

‘Thorin,’ she whispered in reply, her grey eyes wide, meeting his. ‘My heart.’ He noticed that the hand she raised to cup his face was trembling. He raised his own to cover it, feeling the warmth against his skin; and as he looked into her eyes, pulled deeper and deeper into her strange pale gaze, he felt suddenly lighter, as though a weight had been lifted from his chest that he wasn’t aware he’d been carrying; as though a veiling shadow had risen from his eyes.

‘Ithilrian,’ he repeated softly, a hint of desperation creeping into his voice. ‘I need you.’ His grip upon her tightened. ‘What… what is happening to me?’ he added, his voice a hoarse whisper. 

‘You are fighting the sickness still,’ she murmured, her eyes never leaving his. ‘You are strong, my heart. You are noble, and brave. You are not your grandfather.’ She raised a trembling hand to trace her fingers over the jewel he still wore around his neck. _‘Thorin, ae ú-esteliach nad, estelio han. Estelio ammen.’_ The ancient words in the elvish tongue seemed to echo around his head; and though he understood them not, their meaning was yet clear to him. 

‘I love you,’ he said hoarsely. ‘If all else whispers back into the dragonfire, then remember that. Remember me as I was: as I truly am. Not as what I will become, if… should I fail to…’ he gulped out the words, as they tumbled over themselves in their urgency to be heard. He shook his head frantically as Ithilrian reached for him, her hands gentle on his cheeks, his neck, his bare shoulders. ‘I cannot stop it,’ he stuttered. ‘The madness is taking me. At times I can feel it growing, gnawing at my mind.’ He was breathing heavily, forcing out the words that did not want to be said. It was as though an outside force was trying to still his tongue, to halt his words before they left his lips. Unable to speak any more, he simply leaned forwards, capturing her mouth, trying to convey the depths of what was in his heart. _I love you,_ he thought desperately, even as the encroaching shadows whipped and flickered around him. _If this is to end in fire, know that I have always loved you. More than man ever loved a woman before; more than mere words can tell._

 _Come to me, Thorin._ Ithilrian’s voice resounded gently in his head. She was speaking in his mind, just as she had done briefly in the goblin tunnels. He felt the wetness of tears upon his cheeks as he kissed her deeply, desperately; and whether they were his tears or hers, he did not know. Her hands were sliding over his bare skin, pulling him down on top of her, her fingers fumbling at the waistband of his smallclothes, pushing them away before she tugged him sharply forwards, kissing him fiercely as he nudged her legs apart with his knee. His breath was coming in short, choking gasps as he returned her kisses frantically, refusing to remove his mouth from her skin, fearful of what he might see in her eyes if he were to raise his gaze. His swollen length was pressing hard against her entrance; and with a groan that tore from somewhere deep inside he pushed forwards without preamble, filling her, reveling in the heave of her breasts as she gasped and sighed beneath him. A low moan fell from her lips as he bucked desperately into her, needing her touch; needing to feel alive. She shuddered and writhed, raising her hips to meet his, matching his pace as he ground into her, choking back a sob as the treasure continued to trickle over her skin in glimmering rivulets of gold. She felt almost unbearably tight around him, hot and slick as she thrust her hips upwards. 

It was too much for him to bear. The orgasm took him by surprise, coming swiftly as he shivered into her, gasping against her skin, squeezing his eyes shut and gritting his teeth as he choked out her name. He felt a flare of brightness flicker through his closed eyelids, a shining white light that blazed all to briefly; before darkness returned once more and he collapsed upon her, limp and trembling. 

‘I am sorry,’ he mumbled, exhausted. ‘I could not… I didn’t expect…’ 

‘It’s all right,’ murmured Ithilrian softly, her hands drifting over his shoulder blades, caressing him gently. ‘It’s going to be all right, my dear heart.’ 

‘No,’ he mumbled, shaking his head, feeling a cold sweat upon his brow. ‘No, it’s not.’ He pulled out of her, reaching for his clothes with a shaking hand. 

‘There is always hope, Thorin.’ Ithilrian had turned away from him, claiming her own clothes out of the sliding heap of golden trinkets, pulling them on slowly as though her muscles were stiff and aching. Her voice sounded very small and alone in the vast gulf of the treasury. 

‘Hope.’ Thorin shook his head bitterly. ‘Is that all we have, Ithilrian?’ His voice shook, and he clenched his fists tightly. ‘How long do I have left? How long before my reason departs again, replaced by the sickness that drove my grandfather mad?’

Ithilrian moved towards him, pulling him close, wrapping her arms around his waist and burying her head in his hair. ‘To reach the light of day, one must first endure the night,’ she murmured softly. ‘I told you in Laketown that I had faith in you, did I not?’ 

‘You did,’ said Thorin shakily. ‘You said that I would face the same evil; that I would defeat it.’ 

‘And to that I hold,’ she replied quietly. ‘Faithless is she who says farewell when the road darkens. We are bound together, Thorin; for good or ill. Whatever happens, we will face this together, to whatever end may come.’ 

‘To whatever end,’ he echoed, smiling faintly. Exhaustion was finally tugging at him, making his eyelids droop and his limbs tremble with fatigue. _When was the last time I slept?_ he wondered vaguely. He allowed Ithilrian to help him upright, guiding him out of the treasury and up to the hall where the rest of the company was snoring uproariously. He hummed sleepily as she tugged him down beside her, curling into her warmth as she wrapped her arms tightly around him, pulling him into her chest where he buried his head in the crook of her neck, inhaling her sweet, honeyed scent and sighing contentedly as deep, dreamless sleep cast its heavy cloak over him at last. 

~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Elvish translation notes: 
> 
>  
> 
> Mellon nîn= my friend  
> Hîr vuin = my lord  
> A'maelamin = my beloved  
> Veleth nîn = my love  
> Hervenn = husband  
> A si i-dhúath ú-orthor Thorin. = The shadow does not hold sway yet Thorin.  
> Thorin, ae ú-esteliach nad, estelio han. Estelio ammen. = Thorin, if you trust nothing else, trust this. Trust us.


	43. Of Light and Shadow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Thorin struggles with the dragon sickness.

‘Thorin! Thorin, wake up!’ 

A distant voice was calling, dragging Thorin up from the depths of his slumber. It became louder and more insistent as he was pulled slowly out of dreamless sleep. 

‘Go away,’ he mumbled, refusing to open his eyes, burrowing instead more deeply into the soft and wonderful warmth that seemed to surround him. 

‘Leave him be,’ a quiet female voice said, gentle and familiar. ‘Please, just let him rest!’

‘I would if we could lass, but he needs to know! He needs to be told!’ 

Thorin growled low in his throat, finally surfacing fully into wakefulness. He found himself wrapped around Ithilrian, his head nestled in the crook of her neck, his arms slung loosely around the elf’s slender waist. She was warm beneath his hands as he pulled slowly away, blinking in the light. Half-formed memories swirled within him. They had been building something, he remembered. The gates. Then there had been the treasury, where he’d been searching desperately for a thing that he could not find; and then Ithilrian, soft and pliant beneath him, allowing him to take what he needed from her right there amongst the gold… 

_The gold._ The words came to him suddenly as though a fell voice had whispered them in his ear, sharp as an edged blade. The thought snapped him into keen awareness. _The gold that the lakemen covet. My gold._ He raised his head, glaring around, extricating himself from the arms of the elf and pulling himself to his feet. 

‘What is it?’ he snapped, glaring around. ‘What’s going on?’ 

‘There’s a man at the gates.’ Bofur bobbed anxiously, twisting his fingers together. ‘He says his name’s Bard, and that he wants to speak with you. Ithilrian too. Says he knows her.’

Thorin scowled darkly. _So it begins,_ he thought grimly. The shadows around him seemed to waver and grow beyond their small circle of flickering torchlight. ‘Do you know this man?’ he asked Ithilrian, glancing sideways as the elf rose to her feet in a single lithe movement. 

‘I do.’ Ithilrian nodded brusquely, her expression impassive. ‘He is the one we spoke of before: the man who slew the dragon.’ 

Thorin sneered. ‘Bard the dragon-slayer,’ he murmured cynically. ‘He will use that against us, mark my words. He has only come to try and steal a portion of the treasure; treasure that is rightfully ours.’ He spun on his heel and began to march away, threading his way towards the gates. He was only dimly aware of the rest of the company following him as he stalked through the winding passages, the thudding of his determined footfalls reverberating through the stone like hammer blows. 

‘I dunno anything about that,’ mumbled Bofur awkwardly, trotting along behind and tugging nervously at one of the flaps of his hat. ‘He seemed friendly enough,’ he added. ‘He just asked to speak with whoever was in charge.’

‘Uncle,’ said Kili quietly, reaching forwards as if to tug on Thorin’s sleeve, before thinking better of it and withdrawing his hand. ‘Uncle, shouldn’t we help him if we can? The men of Laketown have literally nothing left!’ 

‘No.’ Thorin felt an ancient anger stirring in the pit of his belly, hot and insistent as he strode onwards. ‘Those who have lived through dragonfire should be grateful,’ he added forcefully. ‘They have their lives. That is much to be thankful for.’ He blinked hard. Unfamiliar shadows seemed to writhe and beckon at the periphery of his vision. Darkness seemed to unfurl within him at those words, spreading cruel wings, tainting all that he laid eyes upon. _No, stop! Wait!_ A small, barely-noticeable voice seemed to cry out in the back of his mind. He ignored it. 

‘They escaped with their lives, yes; but what now, Thorin?’ said Ithilrian slowly. Her voice was quiet and her tone mellow, but still it resonated through the stone around them. She was easily keeping pace with his angry strides, her footsteps utterly silent beside him. The shadows seemed to whip and flicker at the sound of her voice. ‘Winter is coming,’ she added softly. ‘Without aid, they will die. You know this.’ 

‘Then let them leave these lands, and seek aid elsewhere!’ snapped Thorin, feeling bitterness rising up in his throat. ‘There is nothing I shall give them.’ He glared up at Ithilrian, aware that the entire company seemed to be following them. _Thieves, they are all filthy thieves,_ an inner voice hissed, as the anger swirled like acid in his gut. _I will not let them take my treasure from me._

‘This gold is ours,’ he added, slowly and deliberately, lowering his voice to dangerous rumble. ‘ _Ours._ It does not belong to the men of Laketown. They have no claim over me.’

‘Do they not?’ said Ithilrian softly. ‘I heard tell that you struck a bargain with the Master when we arrived. A portion of the treasure, in return for his aid. Is that not true?’ 

Thorin snarled low in the back of his throat, his eyes darkening with fury. ‘A bargain?’ he said, his voice shaking with anger. ‘What choice did we have but to barter our birthright for blankets and food? You would call that a fair trade?’ He was breathing hard and fast as the anger pulsed within him, driving him onwards, burning like dragonfire within his chest as they entered the hall with the golden floor. _How dare she!_ the furious inner voice snarled in his mind. _How dare she defy me!_ ‘I will give them nothing,’ he gritted out from between clenched teeth, narrowing his eyes. ‘I will not part with a single coin. Not one piece of it.’

‘But it’s our fault.’ 

Thorin hesitated, halted in his tracks as Kili spoke up once again. His face was pale, and he was fiddling nervously with his sleeve; but he held his head high, and his voice did not waver as he met Thorin’s furious sapphire gaze. ‘It’s our fault,’ he repeated. ‘We came here. We woke the dragon. Smaug burned their homes, murdered hundreds, maybe thousands of their people! It’s all on our heads, Uncle! We _have_ to help them now, it’s only right!’ 

‘Only right?’ Thorin repeated, his voice low and dangerous. He took a step towards his nephew, clenching and unclenching his fists. ‘Since when did the men of Laketown come to our aid, save for the promise of rich reward? When our people were suffering; we were nothing more than beggars in the wilderness, what help came to us then? _Nothing!’_ He bellowed the final word; and the shadows before him swirled triumphantly. ‘Nothing,’ he echoed grimly. ‘And nothing is what I shall give them.’

‘You will go back on your promise?’ said a small voice quietly. Bilbo was hovering beside Kili, glancing between them with wide, anxious eyes. ‘I was there, Thorin. I saw it all. You gave them your word.’ 

‘I care not,’ replied Thorin scathingly, turning his back to stride away; only to be halted by a soft but strong hand closing on his arm. 

‘Enough.’ The quiet voice of Ithilrian seemed to shudder through him, low and soft yet filled with power. ‘It is time, Thorin. You must cast aside the shadow that lies upon you once and for all, before it grows even stronger. This is not your true self speaking. I know you are an honorable dwarf. Keep to your word, I beg you.’ 

‘You? You would _beg_ me?’ Thorin snarled, staring up at the slender elf contemptuously. ‘For them?’ 

‘Yes,’ she replied simply. ‘If that is what it takes.’ 

Thorin gaped for a moment in wordless anger. Bitterness rose like bile in his throat, and roaring rage thundered loudly in his ears. _Darkness behind me, darkness in front of me,_ his inner thought whispered, barely distinguishable from the rest of the voices that muttered and hissed in the back of his mind. _It will swallow me whole and spit out the bones if I succumb to the shadow. What was it she said? To reach the light of day, I must first endure the night._ He stood, strong and fast, his breath coming in ragged gasps, feeling the solidity of the rock underneath his boots, the foundations of stone stretching for endless miles into the earth beneath his feet. _I am strong,_ he thought desperately, even as the voice began to fade back into the darkness. _I am strong. I will endure._ He gazed up at Ithilrian, using her as an anchor, willing himself to hold on.

‘I… suppose now’s not the best time to mention it, but… there are elves outside as well.’ Bofur’s normally cheerful voice sounded wavering and uncertain in the ringing silence of the cavern. ‘Lots of elves, in fact,’ he added carefully. ‘Looks like they brought food and whatnot to the lakemen. They’re all camped out in Dale as well.’ 

‘Well at least someone did! Even if it was the Elvenking. Maybe he’s nicer than he seems.’ 

Thorin heard Kili’s reply; but the words reached him only dimly, as though he was hearing them from a great distance. A great roaring rush of anger surged within him, jealous rage drowning out all other thoughts. _He has come for her,_ an inner voice insisted. _Thranduil has come to steal Ithilrian from me: to steal my brightest treasure._

‘No.’ Thorin ground the syllable out, his chest heaving with anger. He stared grimly up at the grey elf before him. The tension was rising palpably. Thorin and Ithilrian’s locked gazes did not waver. ‘He has come for you,’ he gritted out. ‘For you. He is here to take you away from me.’ 

‘He is not.’ Ithilrian replied, her voice low and dangerous. ‘I am not a piece of your treasure horde Thorin, to be bartered between kingdoms like chest full of silver. I remain at your side of my own free will.’ She stepped towards him, forcing him to look up at her, and only her. But it was hard. Bright and cold as a remote and distant star she appeared in the gloom; and it pained his eyes to look upon her, in the same way that a man who has lived long underground winces at the sight of the sun. ‘You cannot truly believe that,’ she added softly. ‘That must be the sickness speaking. You cannot believe I would leave you for anybody, in this world or the next, _veleth nîn.’_

‘Do not call me that.’ He snarled at her; and in that moment it was as though a dam had burst, and all the anger that had been simmering within him since they’d reached the mountain spewed suddenly forth in a furious torrent of jealous rage. His words poured out in a jumble of bile and bitterness, stumbling over one another in their urgency to be heard.

_‘You!_ You have lied – been lying to me all along! How can you love me? How can you even _say_ that when you know that I… my life, the years I have left… it comes to _nothing!_ Compared to the life of an elf, I am nothing but dust to you!’ His voice rose to echo among the vaulted ceiling, as his breath came hard and fast from his lungs. ‘How dare you speak to me?’ he snarled dangerously. ‘How can you bear to lie and say you love me? How long, Ithilrian? How long until you betray me, like the rest of your kin?’ 

His chest was heaving with exertion, and the bitter words flowed from his tongue like a river of fire. He felt the heat of them almost as though he was spewing bright flame, hot and searing, watching with grim triumph as Ithilrian’s face twisted in pain. ‘Why are you waiting?’ he added bitterly, feeling the poisonous words slide far too easily from his lips, as the shadows before him seemed to darken and deepen, folding him into a welcoming embrace. ‘Do you deny that what I have said is true? Speak, elf-witch! Dare to tell me I am wrong! Dare to tell me…!’

‘You are wrong.’

The elf’s voice cut across his with a furious snap, like the crack of a whip in the horrified silence. ‘You are wrong,’ she repeated, more softly, but still with a resonant anger that seemed to shake the very floor. ‘You think me so false, Thorin? That after you go to the sea, I shall simply find another to take your place?’ 

She stepped towards him, her eyes blazing brightly, angrily; yet tears rolled down her cheeks, sparkling like diamonds in the light that blazed suddenly forth. ‘There will _never_ be anybody else,’ she said, her voice low. ‘Never. When you pass from this world, so too shall I die. Long have I known this. It is the price I must pay for loving a mortal: for loving someone that death can touch. And willingly, I shall pay it; for I love you, Thorin Oakenshield. More than words can tell. And if you do not believe me… if you have fallen so far from grace that you think my every word a lie…’ she paused, halting directly before him. The bright light within her seemed to grow, but so too did the darkness; until she appeared a figure beautiful but terrible to behold, filled with a fell power, in whom hope and despair flowed like a river of tears.

‘Then there is no hope for us,’ she finished, her voice a mere whisper; but a whisper that resonated through the very stone itself, causing Thorin to flinch. That shadows around him whipped and flickered. ‘Now is the hour that you must make your choice,’ she intoned slowly. ‘Will you cast aside the madness that is poisoning your thought, and driving you ever towards hatred and greed? Or will you fall even further into darkness and ruin? Decide _now,_ son of Durin. Your time is running out.’ She raised her hands and spread them wide; and Thorin found that suddenly he could move again, that he was no longer rooted to the spot. 

He shuddered. A sick, nauseous feeling was building inside his gut. His thoughts were coming slowly, thick and viscous, half-formed memories clawing at his mind through the fog of rage and pain. A burning anger had taken hold of him, squeezing him tightly like hot iron bands around his chest, making the breath rasp in his throat and his tongue cleave to the roof of his mouth. He looked up at Ithilrian through the darkness that seemed to rise around him, and saw her standing still as stone, no longer stern and terrible, but shining with a soft, pale radiance. All robed in snowy white she seemed, her expression filled with gentle tenderness, offering him safety, comfort, compassion; and peace. 

_No,_ a voice in his head seemed to snarl. _No! The elf-witch is using you! She will betray you! Kill her, crush her! Snap her neck and cast her aside, take the power for yourself!_ His hand rose unbidden, his fist clenching, ready to strike her down; before it dropped, pulled towards the familiar jewel that hung around his neck. He felt it pulsing beneath his fingers as he dragged at it, the delicate silver chain snapping as he tore it from his throat. At its touch a memory clawed its way to the surface: of the pair of them in Laketown, tender and loving; of quiet words spoken in the dead of night. _Trust me, Ithilrian?_ he had asked, as she had sighed and shivered beneath him. _Always,_ had been her reply. _Always._

_Trust,_ he thought dimly. The words were coming only slowly to his mind, as though he was having to reach into the darkness and grasp at them one by one. _She trusted me. Now I must trust her._ He blinked hard, tightening his fingers upon the Twilight Stone, ignoring the whispering darkness around him. He could still feel the rage burning, rising to consume him like tongues of flickering fire; but he did not care. _Let it burn,_ he thought grimly. _Let it burn itself into nothing but ashes and dust. I am not my grandfather._

Slowly, agonizingly, he reached out and grasped one of her hands in his, feeling the sudden jolt of power thrumming through him. _Now I make my choice,_ he thought, unable to speak as the shadows flickered wildly. _I choose you, Ithilrian. No matter the choice, it will always be you._ He leaned forwards clumsily as she bent towards him, and took her mouth in a fumbling, desperate kiss, trying to pour the remnants of his bruised heart and shattered soul into her, as the darkness tore at him with teeth and talons, and the night seemed to rise up and engulf him entirely. 

A blinding flash of white light seared through the chamber. Ithilrian’s hand was torn from his grasp as Thorin was knocked backwards, his feet stumbling. Something was stirring, threading its way through his gut. He fell to his knees and retched, his throat convulsing; but all that came forth was a shadow, a black and twisted darkness that seemed to be forcing its way up his throat, blocking his lungs, choking him; before another flash of power seared the air, and it was gone. For a moment a vast, winged shape seemed to tower over him, the shadow of a dragon: before it disappeared utterly, vanishing with a faint wailing sound like the ghost of a distant scream. 

‘It is gone.’ Ithilrian’s voice sounded low and faint in the ringing silence. ‘It is done. You are free.’ 

Thorin opened his eyes. He was still kneeling upon the golden floor, his breath coming in shaking gasps, as though he had just run a great distance. His heart was thrumming frantically, and his head was pounding; but he was free. A shadow that had lain upon him since they set foot inside the mountain had lifted; and though he felt sick and in pain, his limbs weak and trembling, he felt triumphant. He rose to his feet, blinking in the light of the smoldering torches. 

Hands reached out towards him, helping him back to his feet. He felt the sturdy press of Dwalin’s shoulder beneath his arm, as his loyal captain took some of his weight. ‘Thank you,’ he muttered, blinking hard in the dim light. 

‘S’allright laddie.’ Dwalin’s voice was rough and throaty as he guided his king to a seat. ‘You had us all scared for a bit there,’ he added. ‘It was like you could not see what y’were becoming.’ His hands were surprisingly gentle as he helped Thorin to sit, before turning away and marching towards the prone figure of Ithilrian. Without any preamble he scooped the silver elf up into his arms and strode back towards Thorin, depositing her carefully beside him. ‘The way I see it, she just saved you,’ he growled. His voice was gruff, but his eyes were shining; and if Thorin didn’t know better, he’d have sworn that the tough dwarf was in tears. ‘She did what I could not. What none of us could do.’ His voice cracked and he turned hastily away.

‘Thorin.’ Ithilrian’s voice sounded weary, a shadow of what it had been before. ‘Thorin, where are you? I cannot see you.’ 

‘I am here.’ He slipped from his chair and reached for her, pulling her into his arms and holding her tightly. Her eyes were open but unseeing. ‘Come back,’ he whispered softly, pressing a tentative kiss to her forehead. ‘Come back to me.’ He waited with bated breath until Ithilrian’s eyelids fluttered, and she shivered fitfully. Her grey gaze found him; and, exhausted as she was, a gentle smile tugged at her lips. 

‘You are back.’ She sighed softly, her eyes closing once more. ‘You are back with us once more. I can see no stain upon your soul.’ 

‘Thanks to you.’ Thorin gulped the words out, holding her close. ‘Ithilrian, I’m so sorry; sorry for what I said, what I did…’ 

‘It’s all right,’ she whispered. Her face was paler than before, seeming gaunt and sunken in the dim cold light; deep shadows ringed her eyes, and her lips were trembling. The drying tracks of tears glistened on her cheeks. ‘I am weary,’ she added haltingly. ‘I have spent much of my strength.’ 

‘Then rest,’ said Thorin, his gut clenching in anguish at the sight of how worn she appeared. ‘Rest, and recover yourself.’ He glanced up towards the others who were hovering in an anxious circle around the pair of them. Balin was smiling, although there was a hint of tears on the old dwarf’s cheeks too. 

‘Come on laddie,’ he said quietly. ‘Let’s get her on a bedroll, at least. Don’t just leave her lying on the floor.’ 

Thorin nodded, lifting Ithilrian up into his arms as Dwalin had done. The grey elf felt practically weightless in his sturdy grip, as though he carried nothing but the shadow of a thought in his arms. Her head lolled forwards onto his shoulder as he carried her back to their sleeping chamber, laying her down gently on the closest bedroll. He cast around, grabbing at a couple of blankets, tugging them over the shivering elf. He bit his lip worriedly. ‘Will you be all right?’ he said quietly. ‘Ithilrian, you’re shaking like a leaf. What must I do?’ 

‘Do not fear.’ Ithilrian opened her eyes, blinking slowly. ‘I will be fine. I need to rest, that is all.’ The glimmer of a smile appeared in her soft grey eyes. ‘I am not dying, if that is what you are thinking,’ she added bluntly. ‘You aren’t getting rid of me that easily, you know.’

Thorin winced, choking back a harsh sob of laughter. ‘Good,’ he murmured, laying a hand on her silver hair and kissing her forehead gently. _So close,_ he thought bitterly. _So close I came to losing myself; and losing her. It cannot happen again. It will not._

‘Umm…’ Bofur had stepped up and tapped Balin on the shoulder. ‘So… this is very grand and all, but what should I do about this lakeman, Bard?’ he said nervously. ‘Shall I tell him to go away?’ 

‘No.’ Thorin groaned, running a hand through his hair. ‘No, Bofur. Tell him I shall meet with him; and we will discuss terms.’ 

‘Terms?’ interrupted Kili, his brown eyes widening. ‘Does that mean that you’ll help them after all, Uncle?’ 

‘Yes.’ Thorin nodded decisively. ‘What I said earlier… what I did… Kili and Bilbo were right. I gave them my word: and I shall keep it.’ He glanced down at Ithilrian, to find her still watching him from beneath her lashes, smiling faintly. ‘I must go,’ he added softly. ‘But first…’ he glanced up at the anxiously hovering dwarves. ‘Tell the man I will meet with him shortly,’ he added gruffly. ‘I wish to speak with Ithilrian. Alone.’

‘Of course.’ Balin nodded quickly. ‘Come on now,’ he added, shepherding the rest of the Company out into the hall. ‘Give them a moment, for pity’s sake.’ 

Thorin shook his head, listening to the sound of booted feet retreating along the corridor, before turning back to the elf. He raised a shaking hand, running it over her silken hair once more, feeling bitter tears stinging his eyes as he knelt beside her and bent his head. ‘Ithilrian?’ he said quietly. Her eyes fluttered open once more.

‘I am still here,’ she murmured. ‘I am not going anywhere.’ 

‘I know.’ Thorin swallowed hard. _I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,_ he tried to say; but his throat felt raw and painful, and the only word that came easily to his lips was her name. He repeated it softly, seeming to draw strength from the sound; all the while keeping one hand clenched tightly upon the Twilight Stone, and the other running slowly through her long fall of silver hair. 

‘Thorin.’ His name was barely a whisper on her lips. ‘My heart.’ 

‘Your heart,’ he replied, his voice hoarse. ‘Ithilrian, I am sorry. What I said to you… what I did…’ He choked back the sob that threatened to overwhelm him. ‘I almost struck you,’ he mumbled. Hot and bitter shame rose swiftly within him, the memory of his actions a mere few minutes ago making him feel sick to his soul. ‘Ithilrian, I could have killed you. I nearly did. If you hadn’t…’ 

‘But you didn’t.’ Her voice was low, almost inaudible. ‘I was not afraid. I knew you would do me no harm, Thorin. I trusted you.’ 

‘Trust.’ He gulped out the word. ‘It was your trust that saved me in the end. I remembered…’ he hesitated, wincing. ‘I told you back in Laketown that I feared the dragon sickness above all else. Now you see why. When I think of how close I came to hurting you… to losing all that I have fought for; to betraying you, betraying the bonds forged between us…’ he broke off, his voice finally breaking. He bent low to bury his head in her shoulder as sob after painful sob wracked his entire body.

‘Thorin,’ she whispered. _‘Ú i vethed. Nâ i onnad._ It is done. You are free, body and soul.’ She pressed a slender hand over his heart. He could feel the heat of it even through his tunic, the warmth seeming to spread and tingle through his veins. _‘Hervenn,’_ she murmured. ‘Husband. Please, do not weep so bitterly. It was a hard-fought battle; but together we have triumphed.’ 

‘Together,’ mumbled Thorin, his breath hitching, raising his head and trying to draw in deep, comforting breaths. ‘I know not what would have happened if you hadn’t been here, Ithilrian. I do not want to think on it.’ He lifted his clenched hand and unfurled his fingers slowly, revealing the Twilight Stone still in his palm. He had been gripping it so tightly that the delicate silver filigree had left small red marks in his skin. 

The ghost of a smile flickered over Ithilrian’s features. Pale and wan as she looked, his spirit was still lifted by the beauty of it; the gentle tug of her lips, the softening of her grey eyes. ‘Through darkness, doubt, and danger, you have trusted me,’ she murmured. ‘We have come so far; and while there is much yet left to do…’ she broke off, raising one trembling hand to cup his cheek. ‘You have given me hope,’ she said quietly. 

‘Hope,’ repeated Thorin hoarsely. ‘That is what you are to me, Ithilrian. What you have always been. A light in the darkness; my first star of twilight.’ He leaned in to her touch, raising one shaking hand to cover hers. Her eyes were shining brightly even through her weariness as he lowered his head once more, kissing her lips with the utmost care and tenderness, suddenly fearful that she might break beneath his touch. His hair swung forwards, forming a curtain of shadow around them both as he sighed softly, nuzzling her cheek gently with his nose before finding her lips once more. ‘You have saved me,’ he murmured against her skin. ‘You saved me from the sickness that drove my grandfather mad.’ 

‘You saved yourself, Thorin Oakenshield,’ she replied softly. ‘It was your strength, and your courage, that won out against the darkness in the end. Had your will not been so strong, then all my efforts would have been in vain.’ Her breath was soft against his cheek, warm and smelling sweetly of honeysuckle. He shook his head, biting back fresh tears that threatened to spill from his eyes. 

_‘Amraliastî,’_ he murmured. _‘Labathmiastî, lanselê.’_ The low khuzdul syllables rumbled from his throat as he kissed her cheek softly, smiling at Ithilrian’s gentle breath of laughter. 

‘Now that is unfair,’ said the silver elf, her voice still weak but laced with gentle fondness. ‘What are you saying, my heart?’ 

‘That I love you,’ he replied softly. ‘I would say it in every language under the sun if I knew how. Yet it would appear that khuzdul and westron will have to suffice for now.’ He raised his head to gaze at her, tracing the curve of her lips with his thumb, noting with a pang of guilt the tracks of tears still damp upon her cheeks. _‘Khebabmudtê,’_ he added softly, touching his forehead to hers in a brief, tender gesture. ‘That’s what you are to me, my love. The forge where my heart was made whole.’

_‘Khebabmudtê,’_ Ithilrian repeated slowly, as though testing the unfamiliar staccato syllables. ‘I shall have to remember that one, _veleth nîn._ For you did the same for me, though perhaps you were not aware of it at the time.’ 

Thorin raised his head, looking down at her questioningly. ‘What do you mean?’ 

Ithilrian sighed softly. ‘When I lost Celebrían all those years ago, I lost a piece of my soul as well. It was torn from me when her ship left for Valinor. The pain was… unimaginable. Unbearable.’ She broke off, shuddering. ‘I ran from it,’ she murmured. ‘From my grief, from the loss, from everything I ever knew, trying to shake myself from its grasp. I failed. For four hundred years I travelled this world, seeking something that could mend it. I found you.’

Her voice trailed off and her eyes fluttered closed. Thorin reached down to grasp her hand tightly. ‘A light in the darkness,’ she mumbled. ‘I was… fading. Dying, inch by inch as the centuries passed. But then… I saw you. Bright like a flame amidst the endless night.’ She smiled wanly. ‘I was confused at first. Afraid. I did not want to love you.’ She squeezed his hand gently. ‘I was a fool.’ 

‘If you were a fool, then so was I,’ whispered Thorin, his throat tight with tears. ‘For it took me far too long to see… to realize just how precious you had become to me…’

‘But you did.’ Ithilrian smiled faintly. ‘Never did I dream that you could grow to love me, Thorin. I thought that you would bring me nothing but grief. But it eased the pain in my heart to be near you; to hear the sound of your voice, to see the beauty of your smile day by day.’ She reached up to trace the line of his cheek, stilling his voice as he opened his mouth to speak. ‘You told me you loved me,’ she whispered. ‘You kissed me, with such fire within you that I _knew_ you were speaking the truth. And afterwards… I was whole again.’ She laughed softly. ‘So you see, we have saved each other, Thorin Oakenshield. I may have helped you drive away the dragon sickness, but you have saved my life; my very soul, although you knew it not.’ 

Thorin shook his head in wonderment. ‘I did not know,’ he murmured hoarsely. ‘Ithilrian, I knew nothing of this. Why did you not tell me?’

‘As I recall, at the time I was rather more interested in stealing another kiss from you,’ she replied, the hint of laughter in her voice making something deep within his heart glow with delight. ‘You are intoxicating, Thorin. More so than you know, I deem.’ 

‘Hmpf.’ Thorin grunted, unable to stop the slow smile that crept over his face. ‘Now you are simply flattering me, in the hope that I abandon this line of questioning in the face of your distractions.’ 

‘Perhaps.’ Ithilrian smiled faintly, her lips parting in a breath of gentle laughter; and Thorin could not resist the invitation. He bent his head to kiss her, cupping her face with careful tenderness, sighing softly as she tilted her head upwards, inviting him to take: to taste her once more. He felt a slow, shuddering warmth beginning to coil around him as she deepened the kiss, as the sweet sensation of her tongue against his sent a dizzying spike of desire lancing hotly through his loins. 

‘Ithilrian,’ he murmured, his mouth hot and wet against her skin. _‘Azralizi._ But you’re still so exhausted; and it’s all my fault. You must rest.’ 

‘Then I shall do so.’ The elf smiled faintly as he pulled reluctantly away, fighting to still the sensations that were beginning to flood through his body. ‘But before you leave, know this,’ she added. ‘My heart tells me that our quest is not yet fully done, _veleth nîn._ For good or ill, something draws near. I can feel it.’ She squeezed his hand tightly, compelling him to look into her eyes. ‘But whatever happens, whatever comes next… know that I shall stand at your side. Hand in hand, we will weather the coming storm. Swear this to me. We shall face it together: or not at all.’

Thorin nodded, his heart pounding frantically. ‘Together, or not at all,’ he echoed. ‘I swear it, on all that I hold dear. That is as fine a promise as I’ve ever made, _amrâlimê.’_

‘Thank you.’ Ithilrian sighed softly, her grip on his hand loosening, her eyes flickering closed once more. ‘Together…’ 

‘…Or not at all.’ Thorin leaned forwards, placing a gentle kiss on her forehead, smoothing down her silver hair once more. ‘Sleep,’ he whispered to her. ‘Rest now, my twilight star. Regain your strength. Duty calls; I must go and speak with the lakemen. Will you be all right for a little while, _kurdûnuh?’_

‘Of course.’ She sighed softly, the breath whispering from between her lips as she shivered beneath the blankets. ‘If I were feeling stronger, I would come with you,’ she muttered. 

‘Out of the question, for now.’ Thorin shook his head firmly. ‘You will stay here and recover.’ He glanced towards the hallway where he knew the rest of the company would be waiting. ‘You won’t be alone,’ he added gently. ‘You’ll be safe here. I promise.’ 

‘I know.’ Her eyes flickered open briefly as she smiled. ‘I trust you, remember?’ 

‘I remember,’ Thorin nodded, his breath hitching as he pulled himself clumsily to his feet, scrubbing one hand across his eyes as the threatening sting of tears rose up in his throat again. ‘I remember it well, Ithilrian.’ 

~ 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There we go folks! Hope that little bit lived up to expectations (and wasn't too dreadful!) ☺
> 
>  
> 
> Translation notes:
> 
> Elvish:
> 
> Veleth nîn = my love  
> Ú i vethed. Nâ i onnad. = This is not the end. It is the beginning.  
> Hervenn = husband
> 
> Khuzdul:
> 
> Amraliastî = I love you  
> Labathmiastî, lanselê = I adore you, my love of loves.  
> Khebabmudtê = my heart-forge (the forge where my heart is made)  
> Azralizi = I want you  
> Amrâlimê = my love  
> Kurdûnuh = my heart


	44. The Gathering Clouds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which preparations are made, old friends return, and new alliances are forged.

Bilbo hummed quietly to himself as he waited in the corridor, absentmindedly fiddling with a rip in his tattered jacket. Dimly he could hear the deep, baritone rumble of Thorin’s voice drifting from the chamber behind them, sounding softer and far gentler than it had done in days.

 _Thank goodness for that,_ he thought to himself. _Thank the Valar that all this dragon-sickness business seems to be over and done with, and that Thorin is apparently back to normal again. That only leaves one problem left for me to deal with now._

He swallowed nervously. He could still feel the weight of the Arkenstone in his pocket, tucked safely inside the tunic that was hidden beneath his new mail-shirt. _What on earth do I do now?_ He wondered. Thorin had supposedly recovered from his madness; so presumably, giving him the stone now meant that he wouldn’t fall even further into the dragon sickness, as Balin had feared. On the other hand, Bilbo certainly didn’t like to imagine what Thorin would say if he discovered that Bilbo had been withholding the stone from him all this time. 

He wrinkled his nose in frustration. _I’ll ask old Balin about it all later,_ he decided. _And Ithilrian too, when she’s feeling better. They’ll have an idea of what to do about this mess. Oh dear, I do wish Gandalf was here._

His thoughts were interrupted by the heavy tread of steel-capped boots. Thorin had emerged from the chamber, his eyes damp but his expression determined. 

‘She is sleeping,’ he informed them. ‘I must go now to speak with this lakeman; but I will not leave her alone without a guard. Dwalin?’ 

‘Say no more,’ nodded the tough dwarf, cracking his knuckles menacingly. ‘I told ye before: as our King’s betrothed, she’s got a right to our protection. I see my duty plain, Thorin. Don’t you fret. Anything wanting to harm yon elf will have to get past me first.’ 

‘And me,’ scowled Ori fiercely. The young scribe’s face was contorted in an unaccustomed grimace. ‘She’s so nice, and she’s helped us all so much,’ he added, his voice softening slightly. ‘I think she’s afraid. I could see it in her face right before… before the, um… argument.’ He stammered and blushed, seeming to stumble over the words. ‘So that’s why I want to help,’ he added, tugging out his slingshot and waving it absent-mindedly, gesturing towards his brothers who were nodding in agreement. ‘Why we all want to help.’

‘Very well.’ A hint of a smile was just visible upon Thorin’s bearded cheeks. ‘She and I are lucky to have such… companions,’ he added, his voice softening. ‘I… wish to thank you all.’ 

‘Friends.’ Balin stepped up and clapped Thorin heavily on the shoulder. ‘The word you’re looking for is friends, laddie.’ 

‘Indeed.’ Thorin swallowed hard and glancing around at his company. ‘Balin, I would have you accompany me,’ he added gruffly. ‘Bilbo, you too.’ 

‘I… what?’ Bilbo stammered, caught by surprise. ‘Well yes, certainly, if you like.’ 

‘Good.’ Thorin nodded decisively. ‘As I recall, you have a remarkable knack for diplomacy. Fili, Kili, you know this man Bard as well, correct?’ 

‘We do,’ nodded Fili. ‘We met him in Laketown.’

‘Very well.’ Thorin glanced between them. ‘Fili, you will come with us. Kili, I want you to remain here with the others. Guard Ithilrian with your life, do you understand?’ 

‘Yes Uncle!’ Kili nodded enthusiastically. ‘We all will, won’t we?’ he added, glancing around at the rest of the dwarves.

‘Aye,’ replied Gloin, hefting his axe and nodding. ‘Nothing’s getting into this chamber without our say-so.’ 

‘Good.’ Thorin nodded. ‘We shall not be over-long. Send word if I am needed.’ He turned on his heel and strode down the corridor, flanked by Balin and Fili. Bilbo hastened to keep up, his bare feet pattering lightly over the polished stone. _Well, that seemed to go quite well,_ he thought absentmindedly. _Thorin certainly seems to be back to his usual grumpy self. Or close enough, anyway. We’ll have to wait and see how he manages to deal with the lakemen, I suppose. That’ll be the true test._

‘Master Burglar.’ Thorin’s gruff voice rumbled loudly at his side. Bilbo almost swallowed his tongue. ‘There is a favour I wish to ask of you.’

‘Yes?’ he managed to reply, trying to make sure he kept his voice steady. ‘What’s that?’ 

Thorin slowed to a halt. It took several seconds for Bilbo to realize that they hadn’t arrived at the front gates at all. They were standing beside the entrance to the treasure rooms. He swallowed uncomfortably and glanced around, noting with surprise the pained expression that flickered over Thorin’s stern features. 

‘I… would ask you to enter the treasury for me.’ The sturdy dwarf glanced sideways, his resolve seeming to strengthen at an encouraging nod from Balin. ‘I have no desire to tempt fate,’ he added quietly. ‘The gold sickness may have passed, but…’ he trailed off, scowling. ‘So, Bilbo, I ask that you go in my stead.’ 

‘Certainly.’ Bilbo nodded, wondering what on earth Thorin was working up to. _Oh dear, I hope he’s not asking me to look for the Arkenstone again,_ he thought worriedly. _That’d be a bit awkward right about now._ But he was surprised to see Thorin raising his closed hand carefully, unfurling his fingers to reveal a glimmering jewel sitting on his palm. 

_It’s the same one from before – the one he was wearing around his neck,_ Bilbo realized belatedly, leaning forwards to take a closer look. The stone was smooth and milky white, oval-shaped and surrounded by daintily wrought silver leaves and flowers. It was decidedly _not_ of dwarven make; and it wasn’t exactly difficult for Bilbo to guess at the stone’s original owner.

‘This was a gift,’ Thorin told him quietly. ‘A very precious one.’ He raised his hand, showing Bilbo the chain. It was dangling limply, having been snapped clean in half by the dwarf’s formidable strength. ‘I would have you enter the treasury,’ Thorin continued, ‘in search of a chain to replace this one. If I recall correctly, my grandfather collected several similar pendants and had them strung on lengths of woven _mithril._ I believe that one of those would be an… adequate replacement.’ 

‘Right. Okay. I’ll, ah, just go and have a look, shall I?’ Bilbo nodded, eyeing the doorway with a little trepidation. ‘It might take a while,’ he added. ‘It’s not exactly a small place to search, after all.’ 

‘Don’t worry. I’ll go with you.’ Balin winked at Bilbo. ‘I think I can remember the necklaces you speak of,’ he added to Thorin. ‘We’ll have one for you in a jiffy.’ 

‘Thank you.’ Thorin seemed to sigh heavily, leaning against the wall tiredly as Balin and Bilbo turned aside, starting down the passageway. The familiar golden glow of the treasury was waiting for them. 

Bilbo shivered. Despite knowing full well that the dragon was dead that that no further danger lurked within, Bilbo still felt very uneasy in the treasure halls. The memory of the way that the sea of gold had shifted and slithered over the dragon’s sinuous length was at the forefront of his mind as he trotted nervously down the steps.

‘This way.’ Balin beckoned Bilbo towards a narrow platform. ‘As I recall, there’s an old cabinet filled with trinkets and whatnot over here,’ he mused. ‘I think that’s what Thorin must be after.’ 

‘Right.’ Bilbo nodded, following the older dwarf, keeping one wary eye on the mountains of gold beneath them, still half-expecting to glimpse the enormity of Smaug half-buried amongst the glittering hoard. ‘Balin…’ he hesitated, uncertain of what to say. ‘Is that… it?’ he added. ‘After everything that happened, Thorin is just… going to be fine again?’ 

Balin turned his head to stare at the hobbit appraisingly, raising a gloved hand swiftly. ‘Lower your voice laddie,’ he murmured. ‘Walls have ears in this place. Echoes carry far.’ He sighed, continuing up the steps. ‘But as to your question… well, it would appear so. So far as any of us can tell, the sickness has passed. But by my reckoning, Thorin will be far from _fine_ for a good long while. He’ll be tearing his hair out trying to make up for what he said under the influence, you mark my words.’ 

‘You mean… when he accused Ithilrian of all that stuff?’ said Bilbo quietly. ‘But she seems to have forgiven him already.’ 

‘That’s as may be,’ the white-bearded dwarf nodded sagely. ‘But he won’t have forgiven himself quite so quickly.’ He halted at the top of the steps beside a large chest that looked as though it had been hewn from a single enormous block of pale, translucent quartz. ‘This is the one,’ he added, reaching out and wiping away a layer of dust before setting his shoulder to the lid. The carven stone slid aside reluctantly with a harsh, grinding sound. ‘There,’ nodded Balin happily. ‘That should do it.’ 

Bilbo rose up on his toes, peering eagerly inside. The chest had been lined with plush blue velvet, which barely seemed to have weathered at all over the long years since Erebor’s fall. Gold and silver necklaces gleamed in the light, along with a selection of sparkling pendants, earrings, bangles, anklets, tiaras, rings, circlets… 

Bilbo shook his head bewilderedly. Glittering examples of every imaginable item of jewellery – and several unimaginable ones, to Bilbo’s mind – was laid out upon the cloth. ‘Sweet Yavanna,’ murmured the hobbit, bending to take a closer look. ‘That’s all very… shiny.’ 

‘Aye, old King Thrór was a regular magpie in his younger days,’ replied Balin, reaching down reverently. ‘He had a great love of wearable jewels, you know. Not just the sort of ones that sat on a shelf and looked pretty.’ He picked up several different necklaces, examining them carefully. ‘You should have seen his beard,’ the old dwarf added thoughtfully. ‘He certainly loved to decorate, did Thrór.’ He replaced all the necklaces save one, holding it up and peering at it critically. ‘This should do the trick. _Mithril,_ or I’ll eat my hat. Figuratively speaking, of course.’ 

‘That’s _mithril?’_ asked Bilbo tentatively. ‘The same stuff that my mail-shirt’s made from?’ 

‘Aye,’ replied Balin, sliding the current pendant off the silvery chain before laying it over Bilbo’s outstretched palm. ‘A wonderful thing, _mithril,_ ’ he added softly. ‘It can be beaten like copper, or polished like glass. As light as a feather, but as hard and strong as dragonscales.’ He sighed and shook his head. ‘It is very precious,’ he added softly. ‘It can only be found in the mines of what is now called Moria; but what we call Khazad-dûm, the Dwarrowdelf, founded in the ancient days by Durin himself. It used to be the greatest city in all Middle Earth.’ 

‘Really?’ asked Bilbo, agog as he followed Balin back down the steps. ‘What happened?’ 

Balin shrugged. ‘We delved too deep,’ he replied simply. ‘The dwarves of old awakened something. An ancient terror that we have no name for, save Durin’s Bane. Our folk were driven from the mountains; and for many a long year now, Khazad-dûm has stood dark and empty. The elves renamed it Moria, the Black Pit.’ He snorted angrily. ‘Moria,’ he repeated quietly. ‘One day perhaps, Durin’s sons will return to those hidden doors, and finally reclaim another of their lost kingdoms. But until that day…’ he trailed off, glancing at the chain in Bilbo’s hand. Even in the dim light of the treasury the silvery metal seemed to glimmer brightly, featherlight in the hobbit’s hand. 

‘It’s… very pretty,’ said Bilbo, aware of just how tiny his voice sounded in the vast emptiness of the echoing halls. ‘Very… shiny. Is that why Thorin asked for it specifically?’ 

Balin shrugged. ‘Possibly. You’d have to ask him though, laddie. But my guess would be because it’s not only pretty, and precious, but also strong. I doubt that he’d have been able to break it as he did the other one. Even with his strength, it still wouldn’t have snapped.’ The white-bearded dwarf winked knowingly. ‘Besides, I know that the elves of old have always loved _mithril,’_ he added with a grin. ‘And that is almost certainly an elvish jewel that Thorin’s been wearing all this time. Wonders never cease, eh?’ 

Bilbo chuckled in agreement, feeling relieved as they stepped out of the treasury and began to walk back up the passageway. Thorin was waiting for them by the door, seeming deep in conversation with Fili. But he looked up eagerly at the sound of their approach. 

‘Any luck?’ he asked, stepping forwards. 

‘I think so,’ nodded Balin, gesturing towards Bilbo. ‘Show him what we found, laddie.’ 

Bilbo swallowed nervously under the intensity of the dwarf king’s gaze, but opened his palm nonetheless. ‘It was in a sort of crystal chest,’ he said, noticing Thorin’s eyes widen almost imperceptibly at the sight of the gleaming _mithril._ He suppressed the swift urge to close his fingers and pull his hand back, suddenly terribly afraid that Thorin hadn’t shaken off the sickness at all; or worse, that it might be coming back, as Thorin reached out towards it with tentative fingers.

‘Well done,’ he said quietly. Bilbo breathed a long, slow sigh of relief as he met the dwarf’s gaze momentarily. Thorin’s eyes had not flickered and darkened as they had on previous days. Gone was the hard, cold stare and the almost imperceptible sneer. Rather, an exhausted sadness seemed to pass over Thorin’s features, a pained smile that made him seem far older than his years. 

‘My thanks,’ he murmured, plucking the chain from Bilbo’s palm with gentle fingers. ‘A perfect choice.’ He slid the elvish pendant from its broken chain, pocketing it, before carefully sliding the jewel onto the _mithril_ one and fastening it around his throat with a slow and painstaking reverence. He made to tuck the jewel away, but his fingers faltered. ‘No,’ he muttered, seeming to himself. ‘It has lain hidden too long already.’ He adjusted the length of the chain, shortening it so that the stone hung just below the hollow of his throat, visible above the neckline of his tunic.

‘Very pretty,’ commented Balin. ‘A gift from your lady, eh?’ 

‘Indeed,’ muttered Thorin. ‘Though I am hardly worthy of it.’ He shook his head, as though to try and shake off a troubling thought, before turning aside and leading them back towards the gates once more. 

Before long, the cavernous gloom of Erebor gave way to the bright, cold light of day. Dawn was still breaking, and Bilbo felt an unexpected wave of relief wash over him at the sight of the gathering clouds. _That’s better,_ his inner thought supplied. _Hobbits aren’t made to be cooped up in a mountain for days on end._ He closed his eyes and breathed in deeply, delighting in the feel of the wind on his face. Beside him, he heard Fili swear softly. 

‘Hmm?’ Bilbo opened one eye and squinted at the blond prince. ‘What’s the matter?’ 

‘See for yourself.’ Fili gestured towards the battlements, taking a tentative step forwards. ‘Looks like we’ve got more guests than Uncle bargained for,’ he added. 

‘What the…?’ Bilbo stepped forwards, peering over the fortified stone gates, gaping in surprise at the sight that met his eyes. There were elves everywhere. Rank upon rank of armored warriors were waiting silently in the valley before Erebor. Bilbo blinked hard, rubbing his eyes in disbelief. ‘What are they all doing here?’ he muttered, astonished. 

‘That, Master Baggins, is what I intend to find out.’ Thorin growled low beside him, narrowing his eyes at the sight of the delegation coming forwards. The elven ranks opened soundlessly to let them pass. Bilbo felt his jaw drop. 

In the lead rode Thranduil, resplendent in gleaming silver armor and a long, sweeping cloak. His pale hair glimmered beneath a woven silver crown, and he sat gracefully astride a giant elk with enormous branching antlers. Just behind him rode a man that Bilbo assumed to be Bard: a tall, grim-faced human with dark hair, wearing a torn and smoke-stained coat. And behind him… 

‘Gandalf!’ breathed Bilbo in delight, recognizing the familiar hatted wizard striding along in the horse’s wake. ‘It’s Gandalf! He’s finally come back!’ He leaned over the battlements and waved, unable to contain his relief. 

‘Bilbo Baggins, my dear fellow,’ called Gandalf. ‘I am delighted to see you. All of you,’ he added, turning his gaze towards Thorin. ‘Well now, Thorin. It seems you’ve finally got your mountain back.’ 

‘I have,’ replied the dwarf gruffly. ‘But tell me Gandalf, what is the meaning of this? Why is there an armed host of elves before my door?’ 

‘The reason is simple,’ interrupted Thranduil. Bilbo winced internally at the elf’s cool, disdainful tone. ‘I came to reclaim something of mine. Something that was promised to me as fair trade, in return for safe passage through my lands.’ 

Thorin inclined his head slightly. ‘And you shall have it,’ he replied, his voice low and dangerous. ‘But there seems scant need for you to travel all this way with an entire army at your back. Or are you so afraid of the lands outside your kingdom, that you need so vast an escort to keep you safe?’ 

Bilbo winced, biting back a groan at Thorin’s scornful reply. _Why is he the King again?_ His inner thought muttered. _That blasted dwarf has all the diplomacy of a bag of wet cats._

‘Now then,’ interrupted Balin, his voice low and soothing. ‘I’m sure if we all just simmer down, we can get everything sorted out.’ 

‘I’m sure we can. Unfortunately, there is no time for that.’ Gandalf pushed his way to the fore, raising his staff authoritatively. ‘We must speak together urgently,’ he said. ‘I have grave news. A vast army of orcs is on the march, headed this way. We must all take counsel together before it is too late.’ 

‘Orcs?’ Thorin’s eyes narrowed. ‘Gandalf, what do you know?’ 

The wizard huffed impatiently. ‘If you would just open these gates and let us in, we could discuss it properly,’ he snapped. ‘I don’t want to be forced to simply stand here and shout at you all day, Thorin Oakenshield; as appealing as that might sound at any other time.’ 

Thorin growled low in his throat. ‘These gates will not open,’ he snapped. ‘We have fortified them against attack from the inside. If what you say is true, then I will not remove this barricade.’ 

Gandalf scowled. ‘Then how else are we supposed to get in?’ 

Thorin shook his head stubbornly. Bilbo rolled his eyes.

‘Surely we have a rope or something we could lower?’ the hobbit said, coming to stand beside Thorin. ‘Gandalf’s right, shouting at each other from the battlements is hardly what I’d call a war council. And if there are lots of orcs coming here, then it’d be good to have the wizard with us, yes?’ 

‘Hmpf.’ The dwarf king huffed in annoyance and turned away. ‘I suppose if they must set foot in Erebor, a rope can be found,’ he muttered grudgingly, glancing towards Fili, who nodded and trotted away. 

‘Excellent.’ Bilbo turned back towards the battlements, calling down to Gandalf. ‘We’re just trying to find a rope,’ he said, smiling brightly, noting the look of irritation flashing swiftly over Thranduil’s delicate elven features. ‘Give us a moment, and you’ll be able to climb up. That’s the only way in, I’m afraid.’ He retreated back towards the dwarves, nudging Balin as he went. 

_It’ll be worth it just to see the look on the Elvenking’s face,_ he thought with a giggle. _Clambering up a rope in full battle armor isn’t exactly dignified by any stretch of the imagination._ He smiled ruefully. _Just like the time Lobelia was forced to climb old Ted Gamgee’s apple tree when her umbrella blew away,_ he thought happily. _Priceless, that was._ He was grinning by the time Fili came running back, with a long coil of rope over his arm. The dwarves fixed it firmly to a large metal ring, before lowing the entire length with a massive _whumpf_ over the side of the ramparts. 

‘Right! Who’s first?’ called down Fili. 

‘I imagine that would be me,’ grumbled Gandalf, stepping forwards. He took a firm grip on the rope before pulling himself up with surprising ease, dusting off his robes and smiling brightly at Bilbo, before turning to survey the valley beyond the mountain with a calculating stare. Next up was Bard, who managed the climb even more easily than Gandalf, hopping over the battlements and grasping Fili’s hand in friendly recognition. Then came the Elvenking, who scaled the rope swiftly; but who arrived scowling darkly nonetheless. 

‘Excellent,’ said Gandalf, nodding in satisfaction. ‘Now then, to business. Let us find somewhere to talk. We have little time to spare, and much that needs to be decided.’ He glanced around before fixing Thorin with a stern look. ‘Where are the others?’ he added slowly. ‘And where is Ithilrian? For surely in this hour of need, her counsel will be of value.’ 

‘She is… indisposed,’ replied Thorin curtly, ‘She is resting.’ 

‘Indisposed?’ echoed Gandalf, raising his bushy eyebrows questioningly. ‘Whatever do you mean?’ He narrowed his eyes, peering carefully at the dwarf king before him. Thorin folded his arms stubbornly and glared back, matching the wizard stare for stare.

‘She is… recovering,’ he rumbled quietly. ‘She spent much of her strength a short time ago. I will not have her disturbed, Gandalf.’ 

‘Did she now?’ mused Gandalf softly. ‘And why, I wonder, would she do so careless a thing?’ 

‘It was not careless,’ snarled Thorin angrily. ‘It was nobly done.’ 

‘Indeed.’ The hint of a smile flickered across the wizard’s weathered features. ‘Is that why you now wear that jewel so openly?’ he added, nodding towards the stone gleaming around Thorin’s neck.

‘In part,’ replied Thorin with a scowl, shooting an irritated glance at Thranduil as the Elvenking stepped up beside Gandalf, his pale blue eyes focusing immediately upon the jewel around the dwarf’s neck. 

‘Hmm.’ The grey wizard frowned. ‘Well, that will not do. We must make use of every ally we can find if we are to stand any chance against the forces arrayed against us.’ 

‘What forces?’ snapped Thorin angrily. ‘Gandalf, tell me what’s going on!’ 

‘I shall,’ replied the wizard sternly. ‘But not before you take me to Ithilrian. We shall have great need of her strength, and yours, before this is over.’ He tapped his staff on the ground impatiently. 

Thorin groaned internally. ‘Very well,’ he snapped. He spun on his heel and strode swiftly away, not even bothering to glance over his shoulder to check that the others were following. His gut was churning with fresh anxiety as he led them deeper into Erebor. _A giant orc army,_ he thought bitterly. _That is all we need now; after the dragon, after everything that’s happened._ He swallowed hard, hearing the steady thud of Gandalf boots just behind him, the soft tapping of his staff upon the stone as they approached the chamber where he’d left Ithilrian to sleep. _I just hope he can help her,_ he thought grimly. _Maybe the wizard can use his magic to… fix her, heal her, give her strength, or… something._

‘Dwalin!’ he called gruffly, nodding in satisfaction as the tattooed dwarf seemed to materialize from nowhere, wearing full dwarven plate armor and hefting an enormous battleaxe. 

‘Aye?’ he replied, nodding at Thorin, before glancing over his shoulder and scowling at the sight of the newcomers. ‘What’s all this?’ he added menacingly, narrowing his eyes and glaring as the tall, graceful figure of the Elvenking stepped into view. ‘What’s he doing here, Thorin?’ 

‘I am hear at Mithrandir’s request,’ replied Thranduil coolly. ‘Else I would not set foot inside your precious mountain.’ He wrinkled his elegant nose disdainfully. ‘It still reeks of dragon in here,’ he added softly. ‘I wonder how you can bear the stench of it. But perhaps you dwarves are more accustomed to foul smells than most.’ 

‘Enough,’ growled Thorin. He glanced over Dwalin’s shoulder, noting that the rest of his company was gathered beside the door. All were clad in heavy armor claimed from Erebor’s ancient war rooms, and bristling with a formidable array of weapons. 

‘Follow me,’ he added, striding forward and nodding his thanks to the dwarves as they parted to let him through. Ithilrian was still lying where he’d left her, swathed in blankets, her silver hair glimmering faintly. He noted with some relief the gentle rise and fall of her breathing as he approached. 

‘Ithilrian?’ he murmured softly, reaching her side and kneeling, placing one gentle hand on her hair. ‘Wake up, _ghivashel.’_

‘Thorin.’ Her voice was low, barely audible. ‘You’ve come back.’

‘Of course,’ he replied. ‘I will always come back for you.’ He glanced up apprehensively as the wizard approached, kneeling beside him and peering at the prone figure of the elf from beneath the brim of his hat. ‘Gandalf is here,’ he added quietly. ‘He says he can help you.’ 

‘Mithrandir?’ The grey elf’s eyes opened slowly. _‘Mae g’ovannen, mellon nîn.’_

‘Well met indeed, my dear child,’ replied Gandalf fondly. ‘Come now. We’ve work to do. You aren’t a hobbit; you cannot lie abed all day.’ 

‘Excuse me?’ muttered Bilbo incredulously. ‘I haven’t been able to do that in months, you know; or had a decent breakfast, let alone a second one. I don’t know what Middle Earth’s coming to, I really don’t.’ 

‘Hmpf.’ The wizard chuckled quietly before reaching out, laying a gentle hand on Ithilrian’s forehead and sighing softly. He closed his eyes, frowning slightly as he mumbled several unintelligible words of power, before slowly pulling back. ‘There,’ he added, satisfaction clear in his tone. ‘How do you feel now?’ 

Ithilrian blinked slowly, raising herself up into a sitting position and shaking her head bewilderedly. ‘I feel… better,’ she replied, looking delightedly up at the wizard. ‘Stronger than I have in days.’ She smiled, flexing her fingers and raising her chin. _‘Ni lassui,’_ she added quietly. _‘Mithrandir, man té?_ What is going on?’ 

‘Come on.’ The wizard rose to his feet. ‘There is much we need to discuss; and precious little time in which to do so.’ 

~

Bilbo sighed in frustration, kicking his bare feet against the table moodily. They had relocated to a different part of Erebor; a large audience chamber by the look of it, with a circular table that himself, Thorin, Gandalf, Ithilrian, Bard, and the Elvenking were all seated around. _A war council between elves, dwarves, and men,_ he thought internally. _Now there’s something I thought I’d never see, let alone be a part of. Now, if they could only agree on something; anything in fact, that’d be a start._

‘We have not a moment to lose,’ Gandalf was saying authoritatively. ‘An army of orcs is on the march even as we speak. They intend to claim the Lonely Mountain in the name of the darker power they serve. We cannot let this happen.’ 

‘That much is obvious,’ growled Thorin, glancing sideways at Ithilrian. ‘Do we face an attack from Gundabad, then? Is that where this army hails from?’ 

‘Gundabad?’ replied Gandalf, shaking his head. ‘No. It is from Dol Guldur that this force comes: the ancient stronghold in the south of Mirkwood.’

‘So you keep saying Mithrandir,’ drawled the Elvenking skeptically. ‘Yet if this is true, then where are they? My scouts have reported no sign of orcs this side of Erebor.’

The wizard shook his head irritably. ‘They are coming,’ he muttered. ‘Where and how, I do not yet know. But make no mistake, they will be here soon; and we must fight.’ 

‘But… if the scouts have no report of them, then how do you know for certain they’re on their way here?’ interjected Bard, his face creased in a frown. ‘It could be nothing but a rumor, spread to frighten us into abandoning these lands for fear of war.’

‘I know because I have seen it,’ snapped Gandalf. ‘I saw the pits emptying; legion upon legion of orcs mustering, ready for battle.’ 

‘You were there?’ said Ithilrian quietly. ‘Mithrandir, you went into Dol Guldur?’ 

‘I did,’ nodded the wizard. A spasm of pain seemed to pass swiftly over his face. ‘It is a fell place,’ he said grimly. ‘There I discovered that our worst fears have come to pass. Our ancient enemy has returned.’ 

Bilbo raised his eyebrows. ‘Enemy?’ he asked tentatively. ‘What enemy?’ A hush had fallen on the table. Both Ithilrian and Thranduil had suddenly gone very still. _If I didn’t know better, I’d say that they were frightened,_ he thought nervously. _Oh dear. That’s not a very good sign._

‘Sauron,’ murmured Ithilrian in a low voice. ‘So we were right. The dark power that wishes to enslave all of Middle Earth has returned to strength once more.’ She closed her eyes momentarily, as though steeling herself.

‘Indeed.’ Gandalf’s voice was grim. ‘And right now, his sights are set firmly upon this mountain.’ He glanced keenly at Thorin. ‘You know, or will be able to guess, who rides at the head of these legions,’ he added. 

Bilbo watched a thunderous scowl crease the dwarf king’s forehead. ‘Azog,’ he rumbled. ‘The Defiler did not fully abandon the hunt, then.’ 

‘No he did not.’ Gandalf shook his head. ‘So far as I can tell, he was summoned to Dol Guldur shortly after you passed through Mirkwood. There he took command of the foul creatures that poured forth, uniting them under a single banner.’ He glanced meaningfully around the table. ‘He is a cunning and dangerous foe,’ he added. ‘With the numbers he commands, we shall be hard pressed to defend Erebor, even with our combined forces.’ 

‘Indeed?’ Thranduil said, raising a single elegant eyebrow. ‘You forget yourself Mithrandir. These… combined forces you speak of. Aside from thirteen dwarves and a handful of men, it is _my_ army that you need. _My_ people whose blood you wish to spill in defense of this accursed mountain.’ His icy blue gaze roved around the table, resting briefly upon Ithilrian before returning to glare at the wizard. ‘Tell me why I should not simply take my people and leave,’ he said softly. ‘There is no love lost between elves and dwarves. I see no reason to stay, and endanger my folk any further.’

‘You… you don’t really mean that?’ said Bilbo, the words spilling from him in surprise before he had a chance to bite them back. ‘You can’t,’ he added, feeling the heat flush into his cheeks as the Elvenking’s steely gaze focused upon him. ‘You can’t just leave. We’re all in this together now. If Gandalf is right, it’s the only way we’ll stand a chance of surviving, let alone winning.’ 

‘Well said, Bilbo Baggins,’ nodded Gandalf approvingly, as the Elvenking’s expression darkened. He opened his mouth as if to speak, but was halted as Ithilrian leaned forwards. Her voice was soft, but the few swift words she spoke in sindarin seemed enough to give Thranduil pause. 

‘What are you saying?’ rumbled Thorin, glaring between her and the Elvenking. ‘Ithilrian?’ 

The grey elf glanced at him apologetically before switching back to westron. ‘The fires of Sauron’s malice will spread,’ she said. ‘If Erebor falls, where will his eye turn to next? Your lands will be under siege, and the Greenwood will be burned to a cinder. You know this, my lord Thranduil. It would be wise to forge alliances while we still can.’ She tilted her head to one side slightly, her grey gaze steady as she met Thranduil’s frosty stare. ‘What ails you, _hîr vuin?’_ she added gently. ‘What ancient sorrow is staying your hand; now, when we need your aid most?’

The woodland king was silent. Bilbo swallowed hard, as the tension in the room rose palpably. The two elves’ locked gazes never wavered. Gandalf was frowning, glancing contemplatively between them. Thorin, however, was glaring angrily at Thranduil, as though hoping to set the Elvenking on fire through the sheer heat of his gaze alone.

‘The last time we rode to war was against Sauron; over three thousand years ago,’ Thranduil said finally. His voice was cold as ice in the sudden ringing silence. ‘And though the battle was won, our victory came at too high a cost. You know this, _hiril vuin._ You were there.’ 

‘I was.’ Ithilrian said quietly. ‘I stood with the ranks of the _Noldorîn;_ and watched as my own kin were butchered by the forces of Mordor on the slopes of Amon Amarth, the mountain of doom.’ Her eyes narrowed. ‘Which is why we must make a stand, here and now,’ she added softly. ‘We cannot allow Sauron to gain a foothold in Erebor. This mountain is the key to reclaiming Angmar in the north. If that fell kingdom should rise again, we will all be in gravest peril.’ 

Thranduil’s gaze grew even colder. ‘You think I do not know this?’ he said, his voice low and dangerous. ‘Silver Lady, do not think me so unwise. I know well the peril of which you speak. I have watched it fester at the borders of my lands for far too long; watched it corrupt the heart of my ancient forest, until our underground realm is the only refuge we have left.’ 

‘Then why do you hesitate now?’ she replied. ‘What is holding you back?’ 

Thranduil seemed to snarl softly; a low, feral sound deep in his throat. ‘You know not the pain that final battle brought me,’ he said bitterly. ‘I vowed never again to march to another’s war; to commit my people to the defense of another’s lands. We have paid too high a price in blood already.’

Ithilrian shook her head slightly. ‘Your father was a noble man,’ she replied quietly. ‘I know you grieved bitterly at his death that day. But you are not alone, _hîr vuin._ We fought for the freedom of Middle Earth, not just for ourselves: but for all. Your father knew that.’ She hesitated, holding the Elvenking’s icy gaze. ‘Do not seek to place your grief above that of others who have suffered such a loss,’ she added softly. ‘Your father would not have you hide forever in the shadows, Thranduil son of Oropher. He would bid you stand against the darkness as we did before; united in defiance of that which would take our homes from us.’ 

‘You do not know that,’ replied Thranduil, his tone still hard and edged with bitterness. ‘We took the victory that day, yes; but now the shadow has risen again, and the blood we spilt may have all been in vain.’ 

‘Then surely, it comes now to us to ensure that it was not?’ Ithilrian replied. ‘It us our duty to stand against Sauron’s legions, united as once we were before.’ She seemed to glow faintly in the dim light as she leaned forwards, her eyes bright and shining dangerously. ‘Stand with us, my lord Thranduil,’ she murmured. ‘Let us fight alongside men once more, like in the days of old. Let us also stand with the sons of Durin; for they offer you something that no other race in Middle Earth may give.’

‘And what is that?’ said Thranduil softly. 

‘Redemption,’ Ithilrian replied simply. ‘When the dragon came, you forsook them in their hour of greatest need. We both know that it was fear, not wisdom, which drove you to such an act. I beg of you, do not repeat it. This is your chance to stand fast against the coming storm, _hîr vuin._ To wipe away the stain of betrayal; to prove to the world that our people are still worthy of trust.’ 

A ringing silence fell. Bilbo found that he was holding his breath, watching the Elvenking make his decision. Not one muscle moved in Thranduil’s face as he sat, still as stone, seeming utterly entranced by Ithilrian’s grey eyes. Several seconds passed; before the woodland king finally released a long, slow breath, glancing away as if no longer able to endure her gaze. _‘Ilyë tier undulávë lumbulë,’_ he murmured softly, a shadow of pain passing across his face. _‘Dolen i vâd o nin._ But it may be that you are the guiding star that shows the way.’ He raised his head proudly once again, seeming to regain his composure. ‘You have your wish, Silver Lady,’ he added quietly. ‘The armies of the Woodland Realm shall stand beside you.’ 

Bilbo finally exhaled. _Well thank goodness for that,_ he thought wearily, glancing at Bard and noticing that he wasn’t the only one sighing with relief. _After all, without the elves, we’re hardly much of an army._

‘Excellent.’ Gandalf cleared his throat, trying to dispel the remaining tension that lingered in the room. ‘It is perhaps of little use to discuss strategy, as we do not know from where the first blow will strike. But strike it will; and we must be prepared.’ He glanced sideways at Thorin, nudging him with his staff. The dwarf king was still glowering at Thranduil, seeming barely able to suppress a simmering resentment. 

‘Thorin,’ said Gandalf, drawing his attention away from the Elvenking. ‘What news from the dwarves of the Iron Hills? Do you know when they will arrive?’ 

‘No,’ growled Thorin, finally lifting his eyes to glare at the wizard. ‘Dain is coming; but I’ve had no word as to when his forces will reach us. It could be today; it could be days from now.’ He shook his head irritably. ‘We cannot rely on them to reinforce our numbers,’ he added grimly. ‘If they come in time, all well and good; if not, we must be prepared to fight with what we have.’ 

‘We will stand with you too.’ Bard spoke up, glancing around the table and meeting their collected gazes fearlessly. ‘We men of Laketown may be few in number,’ he added. ‘And to be perfectly honest, we’re fishermen, not warriors. But still; we will fight to defend our own.’ He glanced around the table, his eyes finally settling on Thorin. ‘Dragonfire took our homes,’ he added quietly. ‘We’ve no place left to go. Our only hope of survival is an alliance with Erebor, such as the men of Dale had before.’ 

Thorin inclined his head slightly. ‘And Erebor would be willing to offer such an alliance,’ he replied slowly. ‘Perhaps, when this is over, the men of Laketown would be willing to resettle. Dale may lie in ruins now; but it can be rebuilt. What say you?’ 

‘I think that may prove a fine idea,’ replied Bard, smiling faintly. ‘Besides, it gives us something to fight for. A home.’ 

The glimmer of a smile flickered briefly in Thorin’s eyes. ‘I know well what that feels like,’ he murmured. ‘If your people are willing to take on the task of rebuilding the city, the dwarves of Erebor will gladly offer their help.’

‘So… we have an alliance?’ said Bard tentatively. 

‘We do.’ Thorin nodded decisively.

‘And… the share of treasure that was promised to the old Master before the dragon attack…?’ added Bard, raising one eyebrow questioningly. 

‘Will go to you,’ replied Thorin gruffly. ‘For proper distribution among the people; and to help with the reconstruction of Dale.’ 

‘That’s all well and good, but let’s not get ahead of ourselves,’ interrupted Gandalf. ‘There is still a battle to be won first, before we can talk of settling and rebuilding. And it will be no small task, I can assure you.’ He glanced around the table before rising to his feet. ‘To the battlements,’ he said impatiently. ‘Come, Thranduil, Bard; let’s see what can be done about coordinating your troops.’ 

‘Indeed.’ The Elvenking rose to his feet gracefully. ‘Let us hope that skill and tactics will win out over strength in numbers this day.’ He inclined his crowned head elegantly to the rest of the war table, his gaze lingering on Ithilrian. _‘Novaer, elenion ancalima,’_ he added softly, before turning and following the wizard in a sweep of shimmering robes. 

‘Well, that seemed to go… rather well?’ said Bilbo tentatively, once they were alone again. Bard had followed Thranduil and the wizard; which left only himself, Thorin and Ithilrian still seated.

Thorin growled low in his throat. ‘As well as can be expected,’ he grunted. ‘But I do not like having to rely so heavily on Thranduil and his folk.’

‘I know.’ Ithilrian shook her head slowly. ‘But what else can we do, _hîr vuin?_ We are too few in number otherwise. Besides, I believe Thranduil will not waver this time. He has made his decision; and he will abide by it.’ 

‘Thanks to you.’ Thorin scowled ferociously. ‘I still do not like the way he stares at you,’ he rumbled angrily. ‘I cannot abide it, Ithilrian.’ 

Bilbo squirmed uncomfortably, remembering the way the Elvenking’s gaze had remained focused on the silver elf throughout most of the meeting. ‘He certainly does seem very… single minded,’ he muttered, more to himself than to them. 

‘I suppose that is one way of putting it.’ Ithilrian smiled faintly as Thorin snorted contemptuously. 

‘Indeed.’ He frowned. ‘What was it that he said to you?’ he added carefully. ‘I like not the way he speaks to you when he knows I cannot understand.’ 

‘He said that his path was hidden from him; drowned deep in shadow,’ replied Ithilrian slowly. ‘This was a difficult choice for him, Thorin. He is afraid. The weight of the world lies heavily upon his shoulders.’ 

‘No more than it does on yours,’ replied Thorin grumpily. ‘Yet I see no hesitation within you to fight for what is right.’ 

‘Perhaps.’ Ithilrian shrugged. ‘The Elvenking was only a young prince when he rode with the sylvan armies to the Battle of Dagorlad: the same as I. When his father was slaughtered in the final charge, along with over two thirds of his folk, Thranduil was forced to shoulder a heavy burden: that of a grieving people, and a failing kingdom. Does that sound in any way familiar to you, Thorin Oakenshield?’ 

‘Hmpf.’ Thorin grunted, rising slowly to his feet. ‘I should go see to the armies,’ he added. ‘I will not leave the defense of my kingdom in the hands of an elf and a wizard.’ He glanced towards Bilbo. ‘Tell Dwalin to take her into the armory,’ he added gruffly. ‘Ithilrian, if Gandalf is right, and we face a great host, then I shall be far happier to see you wearing some form of protection.’ 

‘Right.’ Bilbo nodded, before hesitating. ‘Will there be anything in there that’ll even fit? He added uncertainly. 

‘I believe so,’ replied Thorin. The ghost of a smile flickered over his stern features. ‘After all, I found a mail-shirt to fit you, did I not?’ 

‘Good point.’ Bilbo glanced down at his _mithril_ shirt and grinned. ‘Ridiculous as it looks, I must say; I feel a lot happier wearing it now,’ he added. 

‘I thought you might.’ Thorin sighed heavily. ‘Meet us on the battlements when you are done,’ he instructed. Preferably before the orc-host descends,’ he muttered skeptically. ‘For if the wizard is to be believed, then our time is running out.’

~

Ithilrian felt her heart hammering as she strode silently beside Dwalin, deeper into the heart of the mountain. A strange, nervous tension seemed to have gripped her. _Something is coming,_ her thoughts repeated, over and over. _Mithrandir is right. Something is on its way._

‘In here,’ the tattooed warrior said, leading her into a long, narrow chamber. The walls were lined with weapons and armor, gleaming faintly under layers of dust and cobwebs. ‘I reckon there might be something at the back to fit you,’ he added, stalking on ahead and rummaging around. ‘Elves are spindly by our standards. Ye cannot take even half the weight that we can.’ 

‘True enough,’ Ithilrian agreed, smiling faintly. ‘But at least I am light on my feet, _mellon nîn._ A dull-witted orc will not even have time to land a blow upon me, before my blade finds his throat.’ 

‘That’s as may be; but what if one of them gets through your guard?’ replied Dwalin gruffly. ‘We all saw what happened with Azog at the river. He took you by surprise; and it was luck more than anything that he didn’t kill you then and there.’ He glanced back at her, his expression grim. ‘Ye’ve got to take more care, lass. You’re not as sturdily built as us dwarves. One good blow, and you’re done for.’ 

‘I… suppose you are right.’ Ithilrian dipped her head in acknowledgement of the dwarf’s stern reprimand. ‘My apologies.’ 

Dwalin waved her away with a gauntleted hand. ‘No need,’ he replied, opening a large chest and rummaging around. ‘I’m just asking you not to lose your head out there. When the battle heats up… sometimes it’s easy to lose control.’ 

‘Sadly, that is all too true.’ Ithilrian peered over the dwarf’s shoulder. ‘What is that?’ she added, as Dwalin straightened up. In his hands was a dusty breastplate, gleaming faintly silver in the dim light. 

‘Dunno,’ grunted the dwarf, handing it over. ‘But it looks around your size.’ He bent over once again, coming up with a pair of vambraces and shoulder-guards that looked to be part of the same set, as well as a long, slender sword.

Ithilrian picked up the armor, turning it around carefully. ‘This was made for no dwarf,’ she murmured, testing the weight. ‘It’s far too light.’ She wiped away the dust, examining it carefully. ‘Dwalin, this is elvish armor,’ she said slowly. ‘What on earth is it doing in Erebor?’ 

The sturdy dwarf shrugged. ‘Back in the day, we were the greatest kingdom of crafters and metalworkers in Middle Earth,’ he said gruffly. ‘Does it surprise ye that even those blasted woodland sprites would commission us to make things for them from time to time?’ 

‘When you put it like that… no, I suppose it does not.’ Ithilrian nodded decisively. ‘This will have to do,’ she added. ‘According to Mithrandir, speed is of the essence.’ 

‘Aye? Well, let’s get it on sharpish then.’ He gestured her to stand straight. ‘I’ll help ye with all the buckles and whatnot.’ 

‘My thanks.’ Ithilrian held still as Dwalin helped her into the unfamiliar armor, shifting slightly beneath the unaccustomed weight. She was forced to kneel down so that the dwarf could strap on the gleaming shoulder-guards, before snapping the clasps of the vambraces around her upper arms. 

‘There,’ nodded the dwarf in satisfaction when they were done, before passing her the sword. ‘Ye look like a proper warrior now, lass.’ 

‘As do you,’ smiled Ithilrian, nodding towards the dwarf’s heavy plate mail as she strapped on the blade so that the hilt protruded over her shoulder. ‘You look ready to take on an army, my friend.’ 

‘Well isn’t that lucky,’ snorted Dwalin. ‘By my reckoning, that’s exactly what we’re about to do.’ He paused, staring up at her calculatingly. ‘Proper queenly, you look,’ he added quietly. ‘A damn good thing, that.’ 

Ithilrian raised one eyebrow questioningly. ‘Why?’ 

‘Because you’re Thorin’s queen,’ the dwarf said simply. ‘I know it, he knows it; we all know it. Just because it’s not official doesn’t mean it’s not true.’ 

‘I… thank you.’ Ithilrian hesitated. Something bright and warm fluttered within her at the tough dwarf’s carefully chosen words. ‘I may be his queen, but you are his captain,’ she added softly, reaching out to clasp the dwarf firmly on his shoulder. ‘Together, we stand between our king and harm.’

‘That we do,’ replied Dwalin. He raised his hand to return the gesture. The scarred dwarf’s eyes were gleaming in anticipation of the battle to come. ‘I know my duty, m’lady.’ 

‘As do I.’ Ithilrian nodded, releasing the dwarf and smiling fiercely. ‘Those orcs won’t know what hit them,’ she added, drawing her new sword and giving it an experimental twirl. 

‘Oh, I dunno about that,’ replied the dwarf, baring his teeth in a wolfish smile. ‘I reckon they’ll know about it, if I hit ‘em.’ 

Ithilrian laughed. ‘Come then,’ she said, preparing to leave the armory, checking that her twin daggers were still safely sheathed at her hip. ‘Fell deeds await, my friend. The valley outside Erebor will run black with orc blood before this day is done.’

~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translation Notes: 
> 
>  
> 
> Khuzdul:  
> Ghivashel = treasure of treasures 
> 
> Sindarin:  
> Mae g’ovannen, mellon nîn = Well met, my friend  
> Man té? = What is it?  
> Hîr vuin = my lord  
> Hiril vuin = my lady  
> Ilyë tier undulávë lumbulë. = All paths are drowned deep in shadow.  
> Dolen i vâd o nin = My path is hidden from me  
> Novaer, elenion ancalima. = Farewell, brightest of stars.


	45. The Battle of the Five Armies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is a mighty battle; and Thorin finally comes face to face with the Pale Orc.

Thorin nodded to himself in grim satisfaction as he looked out over Erebor’s fortified battlements. The elven army had been divided under Thranduil’s curt directions. A single battalion had remained before the gates of Erebor, alongside the clustered lakemen. The rest had dispersed all around the mountainside, gaining the higher ground, ready to rain down arrows upon anything that moved within the valley below; before splitting up to attack from both sides in a rudimentary pincer movement. It wasn’t much of a plan; but it was the best that they could do. 

‘Our wounded have remained in Dale,’ said Bard, coming to stand beside the dwarf king. ‘So have all those who are too old to fight, as well as the women and children. I have sent messengers to tell them to barricade themselves inside what remains of the town hall. With any luck, the enemy will not think to waste forces on a supposedly empty ruin.’ 

‘Luck?’ snorted Thorin, folding his arms and leaning moodily against the battlements. ‘I’m afraid luck has not exactly been on our side of late.’ 

‘You think so?’ replied Bard, raising one eyebrow questioningly. ‘To have come so far, escaping all the perils that Fili has been telling me about? That seems quite lucky to me.’ 

‘Hmpf.’ Thorin grunted, testing the weight of his armor and adjusting the tension of the shoulder straps so that he could move his arm more freely. ‘I had not thought of it as such before,’ he admitted. 

‘I thought as much.’ Bard smiled faintly. ‘A strange kind of luck, maybe. We just need it to last a little longer.’ 

Thorin shook his head, setting his jaw grimly. ‘These lands, this mountain… it is my home. The home that was taken from me so many years ago. The memory of Erebor has haunted me these past few decades; driving me forwards, with the need to reclaim my people’s birthright. And now, when we have finally done it… now that the dragon is dead by your hand, and we are poised to begin rebuilding all that was lost…’ he scowled fiercely, as a dull, cold ache seemed to settle in his chest. ‘I fear we may simply lose it all,’ he finished in a whisper. 

Bard leaned over, clapping a companionable hand on the dwarf’s armored shoulder. ‘It’s not over yet,’ he said quietly. ‘I never thought I’d survive the destruction of my home either, let alone slay the beast that wrought it; yet here I am. And here you are. That makes at least two of us who’ve lived through dragonfire, Thorin Oakenshield.’ He smiled mirthlessly. ‘Besides, after facing down Smaug, fighting off a handful of orcs should be a walk by the river in comparison.’ 

Thorin snorted. ‘You make your point well, Bard of Esgaroth.’ He narrowed his eyes, peering out over the desolate Erebor valley. Despite the lakeman’s words, fear still sat in the pit of his gut. _Azog is still out there,_ his inner thought whispered. _Watching, waiting, looking for the perfect moment to strike. He is set on the destruction of Durin’s line: of my nephews and myself. I cannot allow him to succeed. Not when so much is at stake._

‘We’re all set, Thorin.’ The heavy thudding of boots on stone heralded Dwalin’s approach. ‘As ready as we’ll ever be, I’d wager,’ the tough dwarf added, coming to stand beside Thorin and scowling over the battlements. 

‘Good,’ replied Thorin. ‘Let’s just hope it’ll be enough.’ 

_Hope,_ his inner thought repeated bitterly. _What hope do we truly have? We have no real advantages. A rag-tag group of dwarves, a fewscore lakemen, and a handful of elvish battalions. That’s it. That’s the sum of our forces._ He turned, frowning, his heart heavy; only to be halted in his tracks by the sight of Ithilrian as she stepped up behind Dwalin, decked out for battle in shining silver armor. _Durin’s beard,_ his thoughts whispered numbly. _She looks… magnificent._ The breastplate was relatively light and intricately engraved, glimmering almost as brightly as her hair. He swallowed hard as she pulled a long, slender sword from the sheath across her shoulder, and gave it an experimental twirl. 

‘I am ready to fight at your side, my king,’ she said softly. Her eyes were gleaming, and a dangerous smile was playing around her lips. Thorin could only nod, his heart beginning to pound ferociously as he met her strange pale gaze. A wildness seemed to be lurking somewhere behind her eyes; something bright and hard and dangerous that made his blood run cold. _She is the reckless one,_ he remembered suddenly, recalling in a flash how she had slaughtered her way through the goblin tunnels; the way she’d run like a river of molten silver through those foul and fetid caverns, leaving a trail of destruction in her wake. She was twirling her sword idly, looking completely at ease; and Thorin knew well the strength that was hidden in that lithe and sinuous frame, the skill with which those delicate hands could wield both blade and bow, severing flesh from bone with consummate ease. 

_I was wrong before,_ he thought, meeting her gaze and allowing himself to draw from her strength; feeling fresh courage surging through his veins like a great draft of sweet wine. _When I thought we had no hope on our side; no real advantages to speak of. I was wrong. We have her._

‘I don’t want to be in a battle.’ Bilbo’s voice sounded very quiet and timid as he stepped up beside the dwarven king, a worried frown creasing his brow. ‘I really don’t,’ he added. ‘It’s just not the sort of thing hobbits are cut out for, I’m afraid.’ 

Thorin shook himself mentally, tearing his attention away from Ithilrian and focusing on the diminutive hobbit before him. ‘Come now, Master Baggins,’ he replied encouragingly. ‘You’ve proven yourself to be a worthy warrior on several occasions. I’ve no doubt you shall do the same this day.’ 

‘Hmpf.’ Bilbo wrinkled his nose. ‘Well, most of that was managed by luck, you know. I’m not a warrior. Not really. I’m just… a hobbit.’ 

‘A hobbit who riddles with dragons, kills wargs, and fights off giant spiders?’ Thorin raised an eyebrow disbelievingly. ‘You are far more a warrior than many I know who would lay claim to that title.’

‘I… well. That’s very, um, kind of you to say.’ Bilbo flashed an anxious smile at Thorin, before straightening his shoulders resolutely. ‘It’s all this waiting around that’s getting to me, I expect,’ he added. ‘It’s making me nervous.’ 

Thorin nodded. ‘Not just you.’ He glanced at Ithilrian, raising his eyebrows questioningly. ‘What if they don’t come?’ he murmured, almost to himself. ‘What if Gandalf’s wrong?’ 

Ithilrian chuckled darkly. ‘They are here somewhere, _hîr vuin,’_ she said softly, raising her head and sniffing the air: a predator scenting the breeze for hidden prey. ‘I can smell them,’ she added softly. ‘The stink of orc filth is fouling up your territory.’ 

Bilbo shuffled his feet. ‘I suppose it’s too late to just get everyone inside the mountain, bar the doors, and pretend we’re not home?’ he added, with a half-hearted chuckle. ‘That’s what I used to do when unwanted visitors came calling.’ 

Thorin snorted lightly. ‘Because that worked so well when thirteen dwarves, one elf, and a wizard came knocking at your door.’ 

‘Very funny.’ Bilbo shook his head self-deprecatingly. ‘But seriously, why on earth aren’t we all safe inside the mountain? It’s an impenetrable fortress, Thorin. That’s kind of what it was designed to be, isn’t it? Surely that’s more sensible that waiting around in the open like this.’ 

‘Because that is precisely what they will be expecting us to do.’ Gandalf appeared beside Bilbo, causing the hobbit to jump in surprise. ‘Azog is no fool. He will come prepared to lay siege to the mountain. Even if the dwarven gates were still fully intact, as they were in the days of old, I would not recommend that strategy.’ 

‘Agreed.’ Thorin scowled. ‘We have fortified the gates; but only to a degree. They would not hold for long against a sustained assault. Besides, I shall allow no orc to set foot inside Erebor. Not while I still draw breath.’ Righteous anger swirled within him at the thought, rising like fire in his throat. He tightened his grip upon Orcrist’s slender hilt.

‘Neither shall I.’ Ithilrian glanced warily around. ‘There is some form of ambush being planned here, Thorin,’ she added. ‘I can feel it. Azog hopes to strike hard and fast, believing we are unprepared for his approach.’ A feral smile stretched across her face, and she spun her sword once more. ‘He will be sorely disappointed,’ she added softly. 

‘You’re right,’ nodded Bilbo, shifting uneasily from foot to foot. ‘It’s gone quiet. Listen; even the birds have stopped singing.’ 

‘It is the deep breath before the plunge,’ said Gandalf solemnly, nodding his grey head knowingly. ‘All that remains to be seen is whether…’ he broke off suddenly, his eyes narrowing as a low, ominous rumbling filled the air. All eyes were drawn to a patch of land just south of their position; and Thorin felt his jaw drop. 

From beneath the earth came a low, dust-muffled roar. The desolate rocky scree heaved and churned, falling away to reveal a pale, monstrous shape. Powerfully twisted jaws seemed to munch and tear through the very rock itself. An enormous, blunt head reared up, swaying blindly from side to side, before shuddering and retreating back beneath the earth. In its wake, a cavernous hole gaped wide, like the maw of an enormous beast: and through it, the orc legions poured, black and innumerable as ants against the grey rock of the Erebor valley. 

It took only a second for Thorin to snap himself out of his momentary horror. ‘To arms!’ he bellowed, drawing Orcrist and raising it high above his head. The elven blade seemed to glow with its own pale light in the gathering dark, featherlight in his hands. 

‘Archers!’ he heard Ithilrian shout. _‘Ú-dano i faelas a hyn! Tangado a chadad!’_ Dimly he could hear the commands relayed across the mountainside. He clenched his jaw tightly, watching the orcs swarming across the land. _My land,_ he thought grimly. _My kingdom. My home._

‘We should be down there,’ he murmured. ‘Ithilrian, we have to fight.’ 

‘Have no fear, my heart,’ she replied, her voice thrumming with authority. ‘Wild horses could not stop me from doing so. But we would be wise to allow the archers to take their toll on the enemy numbers first.’ 

The words had barely left her lips before the entire force of the Mirkwood artillery released their bows. A hail of deadly shafts leapt from the slopes of Erebor, arcing high into the air before raining down upon the orcs’ front ranks with pinpoint precision. Untold numbers fell, pierced by the slender elven shafts; but their advance was only slowed, not halted. Ithilrian watched with narrowed eyes as the legions of orcs simply increased their speed, mercilessly trampling their own wounded in their haste to reach the mountain. Beside her, Thorin growled low in the back of his throat.

‘To the gates,’ he snarled. ‘It is time.’ 

‘Aye.’ Dwalin was behind him, hefting his enormous double-handed battleaxe. The burly dwarf bared his teeth in a feral grin. ‘Let’s go and get ‘em, laddie.’ 

Ithilrian followed Dwalin, descending the hanging rope with ease, followed by the rest of Thorin’s company. She could feel the blood pounding through her veins at the sight of the oncoming legions; but it was not fear that surged through her soul. A fierce and terrible anticipation had her in its grasp; and she was trying desperately to withstand the temptation to simply run: straight towards the oncoming foe, sword in hand, to deal out death to the foul creatures that threatened the lives of her friends and loved ones. 

Another volley of shafts leapt from the slopes above; and yet more orcs fell dead or wounded. Ithilrian grinned in savage satisfaction as guttural screams and cries of pain rent the air. Not for nothing was the military prowess of the sylvan archers acknowledged throughout Middle Earth. The elven barrage was wreaking havoc with the orcs’ front lines, as creature after creature stumbled and fell, green-fletched arrows protruding from the chinks and gaps in their armor. She took up her position on Thorin’s left as the company fell into place, between the remaining elven battalion and the cluster of horrified-looking lakemen. The dwarves were all armed to the teeth, wearing expressions of fierce determination. Even Ori had abandoned his slingshot in favour of a sturdy dwarven axe, clasped tightly in both hands; and despite the oncoming menace, Ithilrian noticed that the young dwarf was still wearing his homely knitted mittens over the top of his armored gauntlets. 

She glanced swiftly around. To their left stood the elven battalion, still as stone, their expressions unreadable beneath their elaborate helms. To her right were the lakemen, all clutching whatever weapons they had salvaged from the ruins of Dale’s armory. Their gazes were darting between the dwarves and the oncoming host with a horror that was almost painful to witness; and they were beginning to shuffle backwards as a palpable wave of fear swept over them. 

‘Hold your ground!’ bellowed Thorin. The dwarf king leapt to the fore, Orcrist gleaming in his hand as he swept the blade towards the orcs in a fierce gesture of defiance, his mane of silver-streaked hair flying out behind him, his eyes glittering with the fires of unquenchable vengeance. ‘Men of Laketown! Elves of Mirkwood! Dwarves of Erebor!’ His voice rose to echo throughout the valley. ‘Now is the hour we rise to defend our own! Now is the hour we stand united against the darkness!’ The great dwarf’s voice rolled like thunder across the battlefield. ‘Will you follow me, peoples of the East?’ he cried, raising his blade above his head, his voice resonant with power. ‘For if this is to be our end, then we shall make such an end as to be worthy of remembrance! Will you follow me, one last time?’

A resounding roar rose up from their collected ranks. Ithilrian felt her heart swell within her chest as she raised her voice to join with the others, in a wordless cry of defiance that tore from somewhere within her very soul at Thorin’s rallying shout. Their eyes met briefly before, as one: they charged. 

Both sides streamed forwards, meeting with a clash of steel. Ithilrian felt the wildness of battle surging through her veins as she leapt into the fray at Thorin’s side, her sword a deadly whirl of silver. She leapt and struck, hacked and thrust, stabbed and slashed like a shimmering streak of hot summer lightning. Shields were cloven in two by her flying blade, and orcs went down before her like corn to a reaper’s scythe. Thorin was beside her at every step, Orcrist gleaming brightly in his hands; and against the pair of them, none could stand. 

Another volley of arrows leapt from the mountainside, raining death onto the ranks of orcs still pouring forth; but even as they did so, a new menace appeared. A legion of armored trolls clawed their way up from the orc’s entrance tunnel, catapults and trebuchets strapped firmly to their enormous scaly backs. On an unheard command, they fired. Huge boulders went whizzing through the air, smashing into the mountainside, filling the air with flying shards of rocky debris. But even as the trolls stooped to reload their catapults, a great cry rose up from the left and right of the battlefield. Amidst the blood and the frenzy of battle, the gleaming armor of the Mirkwood elves was clearly visible as they streamed down from the Lonely Mountain’s sides, bright swords in their hands and war cries upon their lips. With perfectly drilled precision they charged straight into the unprotected flanks of the advancing orcs, cutting a swathe of destruction through the massed ranks. Ithilrian raised her voice in a scream of wordless triumph as the elven battalions drove a wedge through the darkly armored creatures. 

But it was not enough. Even from her low vantage point, Ithilrian was all too aware of the orcs still streaming from the gaping tunnel. The roiling mass of enemies seemed endless. She swept her blade in dizzying circles, hewing heads and limbs alike as the orcs began to close ranks around them. Thorin was still at her side, his sword stained black with blood as he continued to hack and slash at the oncoming horde. 

_There is too many of them,_ her inner voice supplied quietly, over the screams and the sound of the blood thrumming in her ears. _They are too many; and we are too few._ She smiled grimly, allowing the fury of battle to rise and fill her up. _I always expected to die in battle,_ she thought. _After all, there are worse ways to go than this._ She swept her sword around, raising her voice in a fell laugh of defiance; and as if in answer, there came another sound. Loud and clear, the call of a multitude of war horns rent the air, echoing wildly across the valley. The Iron Hill dwarves had come at last. 

~

As if in a dream, Thorin looked up. The eastern ridge of the Erebor valley was filled with a mass of dwarves. Silently they had marshaled upon the hillside, like the rising tide through breaches in a seawall that men once thought so secure; and from a multitude of dwarven throats, a bloodthirsty battle cry roared. Down they poured, legion upon legion of fully armored Iron Hill dwarves; and out in front rode yet more dwarves, mounted upon sturdy wargoats, galloping wildly in a momentous charge that struck the left flank of the orc army like a sledgehammer. Beside him, he heard Ithilrian’s wild laughter ringing across the battlefield as she swung her blade in a shimmering arc. The grey elf’s eyes were shining darkly with battle lust as she met his gaze momentarily. 

‘Here comes the sodding cavalry!’ a gruff, booming voice bellowed. ‘Hey, Thorin! Cousin! Why didn’t ye warn me you were planning such a big party?’ 

Thorin grinned with delight. Clad from head to toe in gleaming armor, and wielding an enormous hammer almost as large as he was, Dain Ironfoot was a sight to strike fear into any enemy’s heart. But to Thorin’s eyes, he was a welcome sight indeed as he hurtled fearlessly through the orc ranks, mounted on an enormous snorting warpig, sending orcs flying like ninepins as he wielded his war hammer with deadly skill and precision. 

‘Dain!’ Thorin shouted, waving his bloodied sword above his head, beckoning his warlike cousin over. ‘What took you so long?’ 

‘Hah!’ the giant read-headed dwarf laughed wildly, careering up to where Thorin and Ithilrian stood, reigning in his warpig and regarding them both keenly from under his enormous spiked helm. ‘Seems you already found yourself a few reinforcements, Thorin! What’re all these bloody elves doing here?’

‘No time to explain now.’ Thorin glanced sideways at Ithilrian, hoping she had not been offended by his cousin’s truculent manner. ‘Much has changed since I last sent word. Azog the Defiler has returned.’ 

‘Azog?’ snarled Dain incredulously, his expression changing to one of utter disgust. ‘That milky piece of filth? I thought you put paid to that bugger years ago!’ He tightened his grip on the war hammer, scowling fiercely. ‘Make sure you do a proper job of it this time, eh? We can’t have his kind fouling up the earth any longer. But Thorin, I cannae help noticing that you’re a wee bit outnumbered here, even with me and my boys!’ 

Thorin nodded determinedly. ‘That’s why I have a plan.’ Quickly he outlined his scheme to Dain, all the while keeping a wary eye on the skirmishing still going on around them. He need not have worried, though. Ithilrian was a constant silver presence in the corner of his eye, as she acted as guard for himself and Dain, easily dispatching any orc foolish enough to think that the pair of conversing dwarves might make an easy target. 

‘Ithilrian!’ he called, waving her over. ‘I have need of your keen eyes. We must find where Azog is lurking.’

‘Your wish is my command, Thorin,’ she replied, twirling her sword readily and smiling grimly. ‘We must seek higher ground. From a better vantage point, I will be able to see further.’ 

‘Aye? And who the hell are you?’ interrupted Dain, looking the grey elf up and down mistrustfully. ‘One of Thranduil’s cursed kin, eh?’ He glanced sideways at Thorin. ‘You’re actually trusting these elves, laddie?’ 

‘I am.’ Thorin clenched his jaw. ‘Especially this one.’ He ignored Dain’s grunt of annoyance, focusing instead on the slight wry smile he noticed flickering deep in the grey eyes of Ithilrian before she turned away, scanning the field of battle with care. 

‘Well?’ snapped Dain impatiently. ‘D’you see anything?’ 

‘A great many things,’ the elf replied coolly. ‘But not that which you seek. Azog is not on the field yet, Thorin. We would be well aware of it if he were. The orcs would rally to his banner; and he would be seeking yourself and the young princes above all others.’

‘That is true.’ Thorin ground his teeth angrily. ‘He has not yet forgotten his oath to wipe out the line of Durin.’ 

‘However, speaking of the young princes…’ Ithilrian’s eyes narrowed, but a faint laugh seemed to shake her shoulders. ‘They appear to have acquired a pair of your wargoats, my lord Ironfoot,’ she added to Dain. ‘They also appear to be enjoying themselves immensely.’ 

‘They _what?’_ Thorin shook his head despairingly as he spotted a pair of familiar figures hurtling towards him, each astride a charging wargoat. 

‘Uncle Thorin! Uncle Dain!’ Fili yelled loudly, his braids swinging wildly as he hauled on the reigns, bringing his enormous mount to a snorting, stamping halt. ‘Look what we found!’ 

Dain laughed loudly. ‘You young rascals! What in blazes are you up to?’ 

Thorin could not help but smile at the excitable youngsters. But even as he opened his mouth to speak, Ithilrian’s hand closed upon his arm in a vice-like grip. He turned to look at her, to find her staring not at him, but at the distant spire of Ravenhill. 

‘There,’ she murmured softly. ‘Upon that tower to the north. There lies the quarry you seek, Thorin.’ 

‘Azog?’ he murmured grimly. 

‘Indeed.’ Ithilrian’s jaw clenched. ‘He is commanding from afar, just as we suspected.’ 

Thorin nodded decisively. ‘Then we need to take him down with all speed. He is the head of this army. Cut off the head, and the body dies.’ He smiled grimly, turning back to his nephews. ‘Fili, Kili,’ he called authoritatively. ‘Wait. We have need of your mounts.’

‘What?’ Kili stared at his uncle, uncomprehending. ‘Why?’ 

‘We need to get to that tower,’ interrupted Ithilrian sternly. ‘Azog is up there. We must be swift, to strike at the heart of our foe even as he does not expect it.’ 

‘Then climb on.’ Fili nodded at Ithilrian, his normally cheerful expression one of grim determination. ‘We’re going with you. Azog won’t be alone, you can bet on that. You’ll need us there.’ 

‘What?’ snapped Ithilrian. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. It’s too dangerous.’ 

‘Um… unless you haven’t noticed Auntie Ithil, but everywhere’s dangerous at the moment,’ interrupted Kili. ‘Fili’s got the right idea. Jump on! You too, Uncle!’ 

‘The boys are right. If Azog’s up there, let’s waste no more time down here,’ replied Dain impatiently. ‘Come on! Let’s get that bugger once and for all!’

‘Not you,’ snapped Thorin, ignoring the outraged expression on his cousin’s face. ‘I need you to rally our soldiers down here.’ He glanced around warily. Their forces were fighting bravely still; but many had fallen, and the remaining warriors were beginning to buckle beneath the sheer weight of the orcish numbers. Even more trolls and warbeasts had clawed their way up from the orc tunnel and had joined the fray, wielding giant maces and viciously hooked blades, cutting scything paths of wanton destruction through both elven and dwarven ranks. 

‘Try and coordinate with Thranduil,’ gritted out Thorin, ignoring the look of disgust that flashed across his cousin’s face. ‘He is our ally in this. Get the elves onside. See if the archers can give you one last covering volley, while we take out Azog.’

‘You don’t ask for much, do you?’ grumbled Dain. ‘Fine, cousin. I’ll do as you ask. But once we’re through this, the drinks are on you, aye?’ 

‘Very well.’ Thorin nodded, pulling himself up behind Fili, as the wargoat stamped an enormous cloven hoof and snorted impatiently. 

‘Come on, Auntie Ithil!’ called Kili, tugging on his reigns. ‘Hurry up and jump on!’ 

‘Auntie?’ repeated Dain, his eyes bulging with shock. ‘Thorin, what in Durin’s name did he mean, Auntie?’

‘No time to explain,’ replied Thorin brusquely. 

‘Didn’t you know? They’re betrothed! They’re gonna get married!’ bellowed Kili happily, grinning from ear to ear. 

‘They’re _what?’_ The bearded warrior looked ready to faint. ‘Cousin, there had better be a bloody good reason behind all of this!’ 

‘Oh, there is,’ replied Thorin. He felt the absurd desire to laugh aloud at the baffled expression on Dain’s face. ‘I’ll explain everything when this is over,’ he promised, glancing around. Ithilrian caught his eye. Her expression was still fierce, and he could practically see the battle fury still thundering through her; but for a moment her expression seemed to soften, her eyes flickering brightly in the dim grey light, before she sheathed her sword and leapt lightly up behind Kili, grasping him tightly around the waist. 

Dain shook his head ruefully. ‘May Durin watch over you, y’bunch of crazy buggers,’ he called after them, as Fili and Kili nudged their mounts into a trot. ‘Good luck!’ 

~

Thorin gritted his teeth. The icy air of Ravenhill hit them like a physical blow as they scaled the rocky outcroppings, drawing near to the old watchtower. The cries of battle below them grew fainter as they rode further away, the wargoats easily managing the difficult terrain. 

‘It’s too quiet,’ he murmured, as they slid carefully from their mounts. ‘Azog might have already seen us, and slipped away.’ 

Ithilrian padded silently beside him, her footsteps utterly silent. ‘He is still here, somewhere,’ she said softly, raising her head and sniffing the air. ‘Azog will not turn tail and run so quickly, Thorin. Not after all this.’ 

‘You’re right.’ Thorin glanced up. The tower was looming over them, crumbling and in disrepair. ‘Fili, Kili, go in and scout it out,’ he instructed. ‘Be careful, and stay low. If you see anything, come back _immediately._ Do not try to fight, do you understand?’ 

‘Yes Uncle.’ Both young dwarves nodded seriously, before creeping stealthily away. Thorin watched them depart, as deep inside him something began to twist uncomfortably in the pit of his stomach. The minutes seemed to pass like hours as he waited, his eyes constantly scanning the seemingly deserted tower for any sign of movement.

‘I like it not.’ Ithilrian’s voice was a mere whisper beside him. ‘He is planning something, Thorin.’ 

‘I know.’ Thorin swallowed hard, as fear rose up to grasp him by the throat. ‘Perhaps we should call them back. This feels like an ambush, Ithilrian. Do you think…?’ 

The words trailed off and died as he caught sight of sudden movement within the tower. Lights flickered at the windows. Harsh, guttural cries could be heard. Beside him, Ithilrian swore quietly as, with a snarl of obvious triumph, Azog finally appeared, in full view at a high arched window. 

Thorin felt a burning hatred rise up in him at the sight. The pale orc was a vision of barbaric splendor as his stood, head and shoulders above the rest of his command, kitted out for battle in spike-encrusted armor. A savagely curved blade had replaced the pronged spike that was driven through the stump of his arm; and this he held up, spreading his arm wide in a gesture of defiance. 

‘What is he playing at?’ breathed Thorin angrily, narrowing his eyes as another orc appeared at the aperture, tall as Azog and just as broad. ‘That must be Bolg,’ added Thorin, as realization dawned. ‘The cursed spawn of Azog.’ He ground his teeth angrily; but the next second his jaw dropped in a cry of rage. Bolg’s flat black eyes glittered with malevolent glee as he stepped fully into view; and in one enormous hand, he held aloft a wildly struggling Kili. 

‘Kili! No!’ screamed Fili from the rocky scree below, even as the breath rushed from Thorin in a horrified gasp. Beside him, he heard Ithilrian hiss softly in appalled sindarin. The youngest of the dwarf princes looked bloodied and battered, but was still kicking furiously, trying to wrench himself from the orc’s iron grip. But it was to no avail. 

They were too far away, Thorin realized with growing horror. There was no way they could cross the exposed ice flats and climb the tower in time to help his nephew. Frozen dread slithered down his spine, settling like ice in the pit of his gut.

_He’s going to kill him,_ he thought numbly. _My youngest nephew. One of the sons I never had. He’s going to die at the hands of that abomination; and it’s my fault. I brought them here._ Beside him Ithilrian had drawn one of her daggers and was winding her arm back, preparing to throw; but even as the gleaming weapon spun through the air, Thorin knew that the distance was too great. The knife dropped short of its target, clattering harmlessly off the rocky scree at the foot of the tower. Beside him, Ithilrian swore thickly, wildly cursing the loss of her bow.

_‘This one dies first!’_ came the guttural snarl of Azog’s black speech from above, as Bolg hoisted Kili aloft. _‘Then the brother! Then you, Oakenshield! Here ends your filthy bloodline!’_

He raised his bladed arm high, drawing back, readying himself to thrust the wickedly curved blade directly into the heart of the young prince. Thorin felt hot tears stinging his eyes as a low groan tore from his throat, able to do nothing but watch as Kili squeezed his eyes tightly closed, anticipating the killing blow. 

But the blow did not come. Holding his breath, Thorin heard a faint _swish,_ followed by a dull _thwack._ He gaped in astonishment. A green-fletched arrow appeared to have grown out of Bolg’s chest, embedding itself deeply in the monster’s pallid flesh. For a fraction of a second, time stood still. Thorin could hear everything: the ragged gasps of the breath in his throat, the thunder of the blood pounding in his ears, as seemingly out of nowhere, another arrow struck. It buried itself beside the first. A low, bewildered moan fell from Bolg’s mouth as he gaped down at the feathered shafts protruding from his flesh. His grip on Kili faltered; and the young dwarf dropped. Far he fell, down from the tower, landing heavily upon the ground below.

‘Kili!’ gasped Ithilrian. Fear lent wings to her feet as she hurtled towards the young prince lying in a limply crumpled heap. ‘Kili! Are you all right?’ 

Kili groaned in pain. ‘M’all right,’ he mumbled, his face ashen grey. ‘M’not dead. But my leg. Auntie, I can’t move it.’ He was trembling, his jaw clenched with pain, biting his lip hard enough to draw blood. 

‘It’s broken,’ said Ithilrian quietly, casting expert eyes over the twisted angle of the young dwarf’s limb. ‘It’s all right. We can fix it.’ Ithilrian hesitated. Some sixth sense made her glance up. In a fraction of a second she hurled herself forwards, dragging Kili aside and shielding the youngest prince with her armored torso as, with a sickening _thud,_ the lifeless corpse of Bolg son of Azog hit the ground beside her. His head rolled back and his flat, dead eyes gazed sightlessly up at her, his face still wearing an expression of bewildered surprise. 

From far above, Thorin heard a bellow of rage. Azog lashed out with his bladed arm, roaring in fury at the loss of his prey. Startled into action by the sound, Thorin rushed forwards, Fili at his side. Grabbing Kili by his arms, both dwarves lent their formidable strength to drag the wounded youngster away from the wrath of the furious Azog, who had disappeared back into the tower and was no doubt rushing down towards them. 

‘Take Kili. Get away from Ravenhill,’ Thorin instructed breathlessly, pushing lightly at Fili and Ithilrian. ‘Get as far away from here as possible. I’ll hold off Azog.’ 

‘Don’t be ridiculous.’ Ithilrian’s voice was thick with anger. ‘If you think I’m leaving you to face that monster alone, you’re more of a fool than I thought, Thorin Oakenshield.’ 

Thorin opened his mouth to snap out a reply, only to be halted by the appearance of another elf. She was running towards them, bow in hand, her long red hair streaming out behind her as she hurtled over the rocks. ‘Kili!’ she called, her high voice ringing like a bell across the rocky plateau. ‘Kili!’ 

‘Tauriel!’ gasped the wounded prince, levering himself upright, trying and failing to stand. His face paled even more as he fell, his broken leg unable to sustain his weight.

‘It was you,’ breathed Thorin, staring at the wood elf as she hurried to Kili’s side. ‘You killed Bolg.’

The elf nodded, her emerald eyes still wide with horror. ‘I saw it all happening. I didn’t know what else to do.’ She glanced around frantically. ‘My lord Thranduil sent me to warn you. Another force of orcs is sweeping in from the North. From Gundabad. Legolas and I were there; we saw them. They will be upon us in minutes. We must retreat, now!’ 

Thorin swore loudly. ‘This is a trap.’ He glanced frantically about. ‘Get out of here,’ he said in a low voice. ‘Take Kili and Fili, and go. Get back to the others. Warn them. We will follow.’ 

‘Uncle,’ said Fili shakily, clutching Kili’s arm and shaking his head rapidly. ‘Uncle, I can’t just leave! I belong at your side!’ 

Thorin smiled grimly, placing one hand firmly upon the shaken prince’s shoulder. ‘No, Fili,’ he said softly. He felt a fierce swell of pride blooming within his chest as he gazed deeply into his nephew’s eyes. ‘As you once told me before: you belong with your brother.’ He squeezed his shoulder hard. ‘Look after him, Fili.’ He clenched his jaw, watching the tears form in Fili’s bright blue gaze. But they did not fall. The young prince simply gritted his teeth and nodded, just once, before turning away. 

‘Good luck,’ he muttered, his voice barely audible as he grasped Kili firmly, putting his shoulder under his brother’s arm once more, pausing to allow Tauriel to take Kili’s weight from the other side. Thorin nodded to himself as he watched the mismatched trio stumble back down the treacherous icy pathway, away from Ravenhill. His heart began pounding as he sensed, rather than saw, Ithilrian come to stand beside him. 

‘Perhaps it is better this way,’ the grey elf murmured softly. ‘They are out of danger’s path, for now. That leaves Azog to us.’

Thorin smiled mirthlessly. ‘Azog, and an entire legion of Gundabad orcs.’ 

‘Hmm.’ Ithilrian laughed softly. ‘Well, I didn’t plan on living forever.’

Thorin snorted. ‘I thought that’s what all elves did.’ 

Ithilrian smiled thinly. ‘Not this elf.’ Her eyes softened momentarily, as she glanced down at the battle-weary dwarf beside her. ‘I am tired, Thorin,’ she murmured quietly. ‘I always expected to die in battle someday. This seems as good a time and place as any.’

‘Don’t say that.’ Thorin felt his throat tighten at the words. ‘We’ll be fine. You’ll see.’ He felt her hand on his arm as they both turned away from the path that led back towards Erebor and a safe retreat. Ithilrian’s sword rang faintly as she drew it. The silvery blade was crusted black with orc blood. 

‘Together,’ she murmured. ‘Or not at all.’ 

‘Aye.’ Thorin nodded, as he raised Orcrist grimly. ‘Together.’ 

He raised his eyes towards the distant hills, wondering when the rest of Azog’s army would come; and when the pale orc would finally join the fray. Surely it would not be much longer. He glanced warily around. The narrow pass they were standing on seemed like a good place to make a stand. Constrained by the rockfall on one side, and a sheer drop onto the ice flats on the other, the orcs would only be able to come at them in twos and threes. Here, he and Ithilrian had a reasonable chance of holding their ground for a good long while. Perhaps long enough to buy the rest of their people some time. 

He barely had chance to register Ithilrian’s shout of warning, before a heavy weight smote him in the head, and he fell with a grunt to his hands and knees. Azog had left the tower silently, using all of his ancient cunning to sneak around the rockfall unnoticed; and now he came roaring down from the icy scree above, swinging an enormous lump of rock on a heavy iron chain, his bladed arm scything madly. Behind him came the remainder of the orcs that had set the ambush for Kili: all heavily armed, and all hacking and slashing at the dwarf and his elf, both of whom had been knocked backwards, separated by the impact.

It was all Thorin could do to stumble to his feet before they were upon him. He raised Orcrist over his head, blocking a sweeping attack, before lashing out wildly, buying time for Ithilrian to regain her feet. But barely had the slender elf risen to join the battle, when she was forced to the ground once more. Azog had surged towards her, sensing a weaker target, wielding his massive iron flail with terrifying force. The enormous boulder missed her by inches, whistling over her head and slamming into the rockfall beside them, sending razor-edged chips of stone flying everywhere. Thorin was being pushed backwards, pace by pace as the rest of the orcs focused their attacks on him. Battling furiously, he could do nothing but shout a warning as Azog spun his weapon with malicious ease, sending the boulder flying towards Ithilrian once more. She ducked; but in the confines of their narrow space, she was unable to fully avoid the lash of the heavy, whiplike chain. It caught her a glancing blow to the ribs. But even as she fell, and Azog roared his triumph, a slew of icy boulders came thundering down from the loose rocky shelf above them, dislodged by the repeated impact of Azog’s weapon. Elf and orc alike were knocked from the narrow path. 

Thorin let loose a hoarse cry as both Ithilrian and the pale orc were sent tumbling over the sheer drop, to land with a clatter on the glimmering ice flats below. He whirled Orcrist wildly, dealing swift death to the remainder of Azog’s guard as they came at him one after another, whirling and slashing frantically with a strength born of desperation. 

As the final orc fell with a gurgling scream, Thorin ran to the edge and looked down. His breath hitched with horror. Azog had regained both his feet and his weapon, and was making devastating sweeps wih both blade and flail at Ithilrian. The grey elf was fighting for her life, her sword lost somewhere in the rockfall, armed only with a single dagger. She was forced to duck and dance aside from Azog’s furious swipes, as every pass he made with the heavy boulder and chain came closer and closer to crushing her. 

Cursing wildly, Thorin did not even stop to think. Orcrist in hand, he skidded down the slope, ice and stone falling all around him as he half slid, half fell down the sheer incline. Rage was clouding his vision, and a terrible fear took hold of him as he watched Ithilrian fall, knocked from her feet by a heavy swipe from the pale orc’s blade. She rolled aside swiftly as the deadly flail thudded down, inches away from her skull. Her dagger was still in hand; and she took a desperate swipe at the orc’s thigh as he closed in on her. His teeth bared in a snarl as he kicked her savagely, catching her in the stomach, sending the light-boned elf skidding away over the ice. 

‘Azog!’ bellowed Thorin, landing in with a clatter of rubble. He tightened his grip on Orcist as the pale orc turned, momentarily distracted. 

_‘Oakenshield,’_ snarled Azog, his face contorting into a cruel smile of triumph as the guttural black speech hissed from his lips. _'So you have come to meet your doom at last. Now is the hour of my victory. I will spill your lifeblood this day!’_

Thorin did not even deign to reply. He lunged forwards with Orcrist, red rage swirling hotly within him, meeting the pale orc’s bladed arm with a resounding _clang_ of steel upon steel. He was forced to leap backwards as the massive flail swept towards him, narrowly dodging the blow as he lunged and thrust, parried and ducked, hacked and slashed at the monster before him. Dimly he was aware of Ithilrian struggling to regain her feet as they fought across the ice, his boots skidding on the slippery ground, the breath rasping in his throat as he forced his aching limbs to keep fighting. 

He skidded backwards, parrying a vicious sideswipe from the pale orc’s blade; only to be knocked from his feet by a swing of the massive flail, the boulder only just missing him. He fell heavily, gasping as the breath was driven from his lungs; and in an instant Azog was upon him, lurching forwards, thrusting downwards with his bladed arm. Thorin was barely able to bring Orcrist up in time. With a grunt of effort he blocked the strike, holding the curved blade flat above his chest; but the orc was both larger and heavier than him. Azog pressed downwards, leaning his full bodyweight into the blade, grinning widely as, inch by inch, his sword pressed closer and closer to Thorin’s heart. The dwarf king swallowed hard. He could feel his strength waning, the muscles in his arms screaming in agony, the breath coming raggedly in his throat as he stared up at the face of his lifelong foe. _This is it,_ his inner thought whispered quietly. _This is the way it all ends._

_‘No!’_

With a fierce cry, Ithilrian was back on her feet; even as Thorin’s strength failed him, and the orc’s blade plunged deep into his flesh. But Azog’s strike went wide: and the blade drove into his shoulder, not his chest. For even as the pale orc pressed his advantage, Ithilrian had leapt upon him with a swiftness that only the Elder Folk possess, driving her remaining dagger deep into the monster’s back. Azog roared in agony, tugging his sword free. Thorin cried aloud in pain as the serrated blade was torn from his flesh, ripping a bloody path through muscle and sinew, as the pale orc spun, enraged. His other arm came up, swinging his flail with devastating force. The full weight of the heavy stone caught Ithilrian in the chest. The fragile elf was flung high into the air by the impact, landing in a crumpled, bloody heap some distance away. In that moment, Thorin saw his chance. Azog’s guard was down, and his arms were spread wide, exposing his chest. With the speed of a striking snake, Thorin grasped Orcrist firmly in both hands and thrust upwards, summoning all of his remaining strength. The curved blade seemed to glitter with delight as it finally found its mark: deep in the heart of the pale orc. 

Azog looked down in apparent confusion at the sword in his chest. Thorin rose to his feet, breathing raggedly, as Azog met his gaze for one final time; before, with a harsh, rattling gasp, the pale orc fell. Flat onto the ice he sprawled, his mighty limbs twisting beneath him, as his head lolled limply back and his sightless eyes gazed up at the clouded sky. Azog the Defiler was dead. 

Thorin winced in pain. He could feel hot wet blood seeping forth from the wound on his shoulder; but he was alive. 

‘Ithilrian!’ he called hoarsely, looking around for the triumphant face of the silver elf. But his heart dropped like a stone when he realized that she had not moved from where the pale orc’s blow had flung her; and even from this distance he could see red blood staining the snow. He did not even pause to reclaim Orcrist. Gasping for breath, he stumbled over to the fallen elf, calling her name; but the words died in his throat as he drew near. 

Azog’s weapon had struck her full in the chest. Her armor had crumpled beneath the impact as though it was nothing more than tin; and the elf’s entire ribcage had been utterly crushed. She lay on her back on the ice, her head fallen to one side, her silver hair splayed around her; and even as Thorin fell to his knees beside her, a thin rivulet of blood trickled from between her lips as, with a faint gasp, Ithilrian’s eyes fluttered painfully open. 

‘Thorin,’ she murmured; or at least tried to. There was no breath left in her to speak the word; but he knew it was his name on her lips, his name that she was struggling to say, even as her grey eyes began to cloud over and she gasped for a breath that would not come. 

‘No,’ he found himself repeating hoarsely. ‘No, no, no! Ithilrian, please!’ He grasped her hand in his and kissed it, holding onto it fiercely as cold dread rose sickeningly within him. ‘This was not how it was supposed to happen,’ he stammered, as hot tears began to spill unbidden down his cheeks, and the breath rasped in his throat. ‘It should have been me. It should have been me.’ 

‘Thorin.’ Ithilrian’s eyelids fluttered; and even in death, she tried to smile, her voice resounding gently in Thorin’s mind. _‘It is all right, my heart,’_ she seemed to say. _‘Do not be afraid.’_

‘No,’ he whispered numbly, tightening his grip on the dying elf’s hand. ‘No. I’m going to save you.’

Ithilrian smiled faintly. _‘You already did.’_

A low groan of misery tore from Thorin’s throat. But even as his eyes blurred with tears at the sound of Ithilrian’s faltering gasps, something made him look up. Vast, winged shapes were soaring through the air towards him. 

‘The eagles,’ he murmured. ‘Ithilrian, the eagles; the eagles are coming. Hold on my love, _ghivashel, kurdûnuh, sanghivasha._ Hold on, please!’ He watched as one of the mighty beasts began to circle, lower and lower, until with a vast rush of air it descended, yellow talons griping the rock, its enormous head turning to fix Thorin with one bright golden eye as a familiar hatted figure leapt from the mighty creature’s back. 

‘Gandalf!’ he called hoarsely. ‘Help us!’ 

The grey wizard hurried over, his face ashen. Thorin lurched to one side, his trembling limbs suddenly unable to support him as the wizard knelt at the dying elf’s side. 

‘Help her,’ he begged, his voice thick with tears. ‘Help her, please!’ The wizard utterly ignored him, already mumbling words of power, one hand on Ithilrian’s brow, the other hovering over her shattered chest. The air grew thick and tingling as the thrum of ancient magic pulsed around them. For a moment, Thorin thought he caught a glimpse of a ring on the wizard’s finger; before the grey elf’s eyes finally closed, and soft sigh slipped from her lips. 

‘No,’ Thorin whispered numbly. ‘It cannot be. Gandalf, please, tell me she isn’t dead!’ 

‘She is not dead.’ The grey wizard’s voice shook with exhaustion. ‘She is merely unconscious. But her injuries are severe. I have undone the worst of the damage; but we must get her to the healers at once.’

Thorin nodded dumbly. He struggled to his feet as Gandalf lifted Ithilrian as easily as if she were a doll, hoisting her limp form onto the great eagle’s broad feathered back. ‘You too,’ the grey wizard added, beckoning Thorin over. ‘That shoulder needs seeing to.’ 

‘It can wait.’ Thorin shook his head dazedly as he watched the rest of the eagles sweeping overhead. Dimly he could hear screams and cries coming from both the battlefield below, and the ridge to the north; but even as he listened, the cries grew fainter and fewer. 

_We’ve won,_ he realized. _The orcs have been decimated, driven back: the battle is over._ He allowed Gandalf to help him up onto the eagle’s back. _But at what cost?_ his inner thought added. He wrapped his arms firmly around the unconscious Ithilrian, gritting his teeth as, with a sweep of mighty wings, the great eagle took off. 

In reality, it only took a few seconds for the enormous creature to fly them down to the ruins of Dale, where the elves and the surviving lakemen had already set up a rudimentary infirmary. But to Thorin, the journey seemed to last a lifetime. He slid from the eagle’s back, falling hard on the rocky ground as the great beast touched down, folding its wings and loosing a harsh cry. Gandalf dismounted too, barely sparing a glance for anything else as he lifted Ithilrian once more, carrying her swiftly into the largest of the tents. Thorin followed in a daze, his head beginning to swim, as the blood loss began to take its toll. Dimly he was aware of the taller figures around him, as gentle hands took hold of his shoulders and led him towards a narrow bed, and a cup of something sweet and pungent was pressed to his lips. He drank it without thinking, his blurring gaze never leaving the prone figure of the grey elf as Gandalf laid her carefully down. Slender elven shapes pressed in all around, and low voices murmuring in sindarin were the last things Thorin heard.

_Let her live,_ he prayed silently, as the sleeping draft took effect and he found himself drifting into a heavy, dreamless slumber. _By the Valar, please… just let her live._

~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew! Finally done! Sorry for the slight delay uploading this one, folks. It took me longer than I expected to get it all done. It turns out that battle scenes are harder to write than I thought… 
> 
>  
> 
> Translation notes: 
> 
> Khuzdul:  
> Ghivashel = treasure of treasures  
> Kurdûnuh = my heart  
> Sanghivasha = perfect treasure.
> 
> Sindarin:  
> Ú-dano i faelas a hyn! Tangado a chadad! = Show them no mercy! Prepare to fire!


	46. Aftermath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we see a little of the battle's consequences.

Dusk descended over the Lonely Mountain as softly as a sigh. On the horizon the sun was sinking in a sheen of pearl grey and dusty crimson, as Bilbo wandered disconsolately across the Erebor valley, where the corpses of the fallen still littered the ground. 

It was a strange thing; but Bilbo found that what most distressed him about the aftermath of the battle was the silence. A few short hours ago, he had barely been able to hear himself think over the bellowing roars of the dwarves, the cries of the lakemen, and the guttural shrieking of the orcs. But now? He could hear every breath that entered and left his lungs, the faint but insistent thrumming of the blood in his ears, and the steady pitter-patter of his still-beating heart. All seemed thunderously loud in the cold, aching silence that hung over the deserted battlefield.

_At least we won,_ he thought dimly; but the words were of little comfort as he made his way past the broken bodies of elves, men and dwarves alike, still lying where they had fallen. But as many as they were, their bodies were still vastly outnumbered by the slain orcs that were strewn as far as the eye could see. After the great eagles had descended, the tables of the battle had swiftly turned. The orcs had been driven back, shrieking in dismay, as the raking claws of the mighty birds ploughed furrows of destruction through their armored ranks. Combined with the terrifying brute strength of Beorn, who had arrived late to the battle in his bear form, they had all but utterly destroyed the orcish army. What few remained had scurried back into the hole from whence they came; and already Bilbo knew that several of the Iron Hill dwarves were putting their impressive engineering skills to use, devising a way to completely block up the gaping tunnel. 

His wandering feet took him away from the desolate battlefield, back towards the ruins of Dale. Here and there he passed others, dwarves and men, survivors of the battle; all of who bore the same weary, shell-shocked expression that Bilbo was almost certain was on his own face. He made his way slowly up the rock-strewn path, passing by the elves on guard with barely a nod. They knew well enough who he was, and let him through without question as he ducked into the larger of the healing tents. 

‘Gandalf,’ he said quietly. The grey wizard had his back to him, and was conversing earnestly with Thranduil in sibilant sindarin; but at the sound of Bilbo’s voice he turned around instantly, a smile spreading across his weathered old features. 

‘Bilbo, my dear hobbit,’ he replied warmly. ‘There you are. I was beginning to worry about you. I thought you might have gotten lost.’ 

Bilbo did not even have the strength to summon up a laugh. ‘I’d have to try really hard to get lost around here,’ he muttered, blinking. ‘There’s a big old mountain that’s very hard to miss. Then there’s a ruined city; can’t really miss that either. Also, now there’s a battlefield full of dead bodies. Almost certainly can’t miss that one.’ 

Gandalf frowned in concern. ‘Come here,’ he instructed gravely, reaching into his robes and bringing out a small silver flask. ‘Take a mouthful of this. It looks like you’ve got a touch of battle shock.’

‘Hmm?’ Bilbo blinked again. ‘Oh no, no, I’m fine. Really, I am.’ 

‘Don’t be absurd.’ The wizard scowled, lowering his bushy brows and glaring. ‘Bilbo Baggins, you are undoubtedly the most stubborn hobbit I know; and that’s saying a lot. Now, take this flask, have a drink, and go find somewhere to lie down. What you need is rest.’ 

‘Right.’ Bilbo shook his head, taking the proffered flask with hands that trembled almost imperceptibly. ‘I suppose you’re right. After all, we have just been in a battle. And some of my friends did nearly get killed. One of whom is still hovering at death’s door, incidentally.’ He took a deep swig from the flask. The liquid was sweet and pungent, reminding him of the scent of roses and honeysuckle. He handed it back up to Gandalf, eyeing him questioningly. ‘How is everyone else?’ he added quietly, as the grey wizard carefully re-corked the flask, glancing sideways at Thranduil as he did so.

‘Safe and sound, for the most part,’ replied Gandalf slowly. ‘Aside from Thorin, Kili and Ithilrian, most of the Company escaped without grievous harm.’ He smiled wearily. ‘I do believe Bofur has been looking for you,’ he added. 

Bilbo felt a small tendril of warmth curl around his insides at the thought of the merry hatted dwarf. Relief fluttered within him as well. In the chaos of battle he’d become separated from his dwarves relatively quickly; and, finding himself surrounded by bellowing, screaming orcs on all sides, he’d taken the only sensible option. It had been the work of a moment to slip his beautiful golden ring onto his finger. Invisible to all, he’d dodged and ducked through the fighters, using his short elvish sword to dispatch unwary orcs as he went. It may not have been the most bold and valiant strategy ever; but as far as Bilbo was concerned, it had worked perfectly. After all, he was still alive. 

‘Well that’s… good,’ he said, nodding to himself. ‘Good.’ He glanced around the tent warily. There were far more wounded in there than he would have hoped. Nearby was a small truckle bed, containing the injured Kili. He was sleeping deeply, his leg in a splint; and beside him sat Fili, snoring loudly, having fallen asleep with his head on his bother’s shoulder. Bilbo smiled, watching as a passing elven healer paused to place a blanket around the blond dwarf’s shoulders before moving on. Beside him, he heard old Gandalf chuckle to himself. He glanced up at the grey wizard, only to find him watching the sleeping pair fondly as well. 

‘They are young, and strong,’ the wizard murmured, almost to himself. ‘They will be fine, in time.’ 

Bilbo nodded. ‘What about Thorin?’ 

‘Still unconscious, I believe,’ replied Gandalf. ‘That shoulder wound was a nasty one. But the healers are keeping a close eye on him, never fear.’

‘Good. Then that just leaves…’ Bilbo hesitated, looking up, reluctantly meeting the grey wizard’s gaze. ‘What about Ithilrian?’ he asked quietly. ‘Gandalf, she’s not… I mean, she isn’t going to…?’ 

‘The elf is sleeping still.’ Gandalf frowned. ‘But Bilbo, you must understand that Ithilrian took a wound that would have killed a lesser being. I arrived in time to undo some of what was done to her; but the damage was great. The healers have done what they can; they say now it is simply a matter of waiting.’ 

‘Waiting? For what?’ Bilbo shifted from foot to foot worriedly. 

Gandalf sighed heavily. ‘I don’t know, Bilbo,’ he murmured. ‘I don’t have all the answers this time. I am sorry.’ He shook his grey head ruefully. ‘Her mother will have my beard for this,’ he added under his breath, seemingly to himself. 

Bilbo frowned, transferring his gaze from Gandalf to the Elvenking, who still stood at the wizard’s side. Thranduil had remained uncharacteristically silent throughout the entire exchange; but Bilbo could feel the elf’s pale stare boring into him. 

‘What about you?’ he asked bluntly, too tired to bother with any formalities. ‘Do you think that she’ll live?’ 

Thranduil simply shrugged, turning his gaze away. Gone was the gleaming armor and silver crown; and gone also was the haughty sneer and cold demeanor. The Elvenking looked somehow older, and far less threatening in a set of simple green robes. A shadow of pain seemed to pass across his face; and Bilbo’s keen eyes did not miss the bandage peeking out from under the elf’s sleeve. It appeared that not even Thranduil had escaped the battle unscathed. 

‘Answer him.’ 

A deep, hoarse voice came from somewhere to Bilbo’s left. All three gazes turned to a nearby bed, from whence the curt command had issued. Thorin was lying there, his deep blue eyes glittering in the dim light, watching them intently. He pushed away the blanket and sat up, seeming heedless of the swathe of pale bandages that covered his shoulder and part of his chest. He was shirtless, wearing only Ithilrian’s jewel and bloodstained breeches as he rose with difficulty to his feet, swaying slightly. But the gaze with which he fixed the Elvenking was steady as a rock. 

‘Answer him,’ he repeated again. ‘Will she live?’ 

Thranduil exhaled a long, slow sigh. ‘Perhaps.’ 

‘Perhaps?’ Thorin growled, his voice dangerously low. ‘Thousands of years worth of knowledge and experience lies at your fingertips; and all you can say is _perhaps?’_

‘Thorin,’ admonished Gandalf gently. ‘Calm down. You should not be up and about just yet. You lost a lot of blood before the healers could tend you. My dear fellow, you shouldn’t even be awake!’ 

‘I am fine. I will heal.’ Thorin replied in a low voice. ‘But why can you not say the same for my… for Ithilrian?’ 

Thranduil hesitated, before finally raising his eyes to meet the dwarf king’s gaze. ‘Follow me,’ he said simply, turning away in a swirl of ivy-colored robes. Thorin grunted, unsteady on his feet; until Bilbo slipped to his side, offering the wounded dwarf his shoulder to lean on. 

‘My thanks,’ murmured Thorin as they walked in the wake of the Elvenking. Gandalf strode behind them, muttering to himself, as they were led through the large tent, down to the end where a small section had been cordoned off with a hanging veil. It contained a single bed, a tired-looking sylvan healer; and Ithilrian.

The grey elf lay utterly still. In once corner Bilbo noticed a discarded pile of ruined armor, several unfamiliar-looking potion vials and medical tools, as well as a heap of bloody rags. White linen bandages had been firmly wrapped around the elf’s entire upper torso, and a thin blanket had been drawn up to her waist. He swallowed hard. He had not been on Ravenhill during that final terrible confrontation; but as much as he itched to ask Thorin what had happened, wisely he held his tongue. 

Thranduil halted at the foot of the narrow bed. He glanced sideways at the female sylvan healer, and indicated the dwarf king with a curt nod. ‘Answer any and all questions this dwarf puts to you,’ he told her quietly. He seemed unable to raise his head to meet Thorin’s gaze, focusing instead on the still figure beneath the blanket. 

_‘Le suilon, hîr vuin,’_ said the sylvan elf quietly, rising to her feet and fixing her dark almond-shaped eyes on the dwarf before her. _‘I eneth nîn Líenna. Man anírol?’_

Beside Bilbo, Gandalf rolled his eyes as Thorin gritted his teeth. ‘In westron please, if you don’t mind,’ the grey wizard interrupted quickly. ‘Bilbo and Thorin here have no great knowledge of sindarin.’ 

‘I see. My apologies.’ The dark-haired healer inclined her head slightly, turning her inscrutable gaze towards the dwarf king, assessing him carefully for several seconds. ‘You are the _cala'quessir’s_ husband,’ she added softly. It was spoken as a statement, not a question. 

‘I am,’ replied Thorin after a moment’s hesitation. ‘I am Ithilrian’s… yes. Husband.’ He paused, swallowing hard. Thranduil had stiffened slightly at his words. ‘What did you just call her?’ he added gruffly. 

_‘Cala'quessir._ I believe it translates to mean _high elf_ in the common tongue,’ replied the healer. She glanced sideways momentarily as, without another word, Thranduil turned on his heel and swept suddenly away in a flurry of robes. Her smooth, impassive face showed absolutely no surprise at her King’s reaction. ‘We of the Greenwood are _taur'quessir:_ the sylvan folk,’ she continued, as though nothing had happened. ‘We share she same blood: but our high kin are very different to us. Harder. Brighter. Some would say colder and more distant, like the far-off glimmering stars.’ She smiled faintly. ‘What was it that you wished to know, my lord Thorin?’ 

‘Everything.’ Thorin’s voice was hoarse. ‘How does she fare?’ He stepped tentatively towards the bed, lowering his eyes to gaze upon Ithilrian’s face. Smooth and impassive as ever it had been, Ithilrian simply looked like one in a deep slumber, despite the mass of bandages wrapped around her chest. 

‘She sleeps peacefully.’ The wood elf turned her dark eyes back towards her charge. ‘She was fortunate indeed that Mithrandir was close by. The worst of the damage to her lungs and internal viscera has been undone.’ She nodded in apparent satisfaction. ‘I have set what broken bones remained, and her wounds have all been cleaned, stitched and bandaged. A long, deep sleep is now the most vital thing for her recovery.’ 

Thorin nodded slowly. ‘How long till she wakes?’ 

The elf tilted her head slightly to one side, quick and birdlike as she surveyed Thorin carefully. ‘I know not,’ she replied quietly. ‘Elves heal swiftly: the body repairs itself while the mind is wandering. But in truth, there is no way to know for certain when she will awaken once more.’ 

‘I see.’ Thorin’s voice was very low. Bilbo winced internally at the sound of the faint tremor that laced the dwarf king’s words. He looked older than he did before; his shoulders were heavily bowed beneath the weight of the elven healer’s words. ‘I… would like to remain here for a time, if I may,’ he added. He sounded exhausted. 

‘Of course.’ The healer nodded. ‘We shall leave you in peace. If you have need of me, call out. I will hear.’ She directed one last faint smile at the dwarf lord. ‘Do not despair,’ she added quietly. ‘Your wife is a warrior. Even now, both her body and spirit are fighting to return to this world: and to you. I counsel patience.’ 

Thorin nodded, seeming unable to speak. Bilbo felt his heart twist with sympathy as they left. He glanced over his shoulder, watching as Thorin sank to his knees, reaching out to draw the thin blanket up over Ithilrian’s shoulders, tucking it around her narrow frame with a slow, painstaking tenderness. 

The hobbit shook his head, hoping desperately that the grey elf would not take long to wake. But something was niggling at him. He followed the dark-haired healer through the tent, ducking after her as she stepped through the hanging flaps and into the bitingly cold outside air. 

‘Excuse me,’ said Bilbo tentatively, reaching up to tug lightly on her sleeve. ‘Can I have a word?’ 

‘Of course.’ The healer turned her dark, questioning gaze towards the hobbit, who shifted slightly beneath the sudden intensity of her stare. 

‘It’s just that, um…’ Bilbo hesitated. ‘Well, I just wondered, you know, whether you were being… kind, with Thorin before. After all, he’s her… well, husband, apparently, although I’ve no idea how that happened; still, none of my business I suppose…’ Bilbo paused, trying to formulate the right sentence. ‘It just seemed to me like you weren’t exactly telling Thorin everything,’ he tried again. ‘There’s more to this, isn’t there? More to it all than you just said.’ He shuffled his feet awkwardly. The elf seemed to stare blankly at him for several seconds; before releasing a long, slow sigh. 

‘You are indeed perceptive, Master Baggins,’ she replied quietly. 

‘Oh?’ Bilbo straightened up. ‘So I was right?’ 

‘Yes.’ The elf was looking at him carefully. ‘Come,’ she added, leading him a few paces away from the infirmary tents, into a small out-of-the-way nook. ‘We may speak easier here.’ 

‘Right.’ Bilbo sank gratefully down onto a fallen stone, shifting slightly to ease the dull, persistent ache in his weary limbs. ‘Sorry, I didn’t catch your name earlier,’ he added. 

The elf smiled faintly. ‘I am Líenna,’ she replied after a moment. ‘I have been a healer in the Greenwood for many years.’ 

Bilbo nodded. ‘So… you’ve seen things like this before then?’ he ventured. ‘Battle injuries and stuff?’ 

‘Indeed.’ The elf’s eyes clouded momentarily. ‘It is precisely because I have seen this sort of thing many times, that I spared Thorin Oakenshield the full truth a moment ago.’ 

‘Why?’ asked Bilbo quickly. ‘Will you tell me?’ 

‘I will,’ nodded the elf slowly. ‘What you then choose to do with the information is a matter I shall leave up to your own conscience.’ She glanced back towards the tent, her eyes softening slightly. ‘The _cala'quessir_ was badly wounded,’ she continued. ‘That she lived long enough for Mithrandir to work his magic was remarkable in itself. But while we have repaired her body well enough for her life to no longer be at immediate risk, her spirit, her… soul, if you like; is still absent.’ 

‘Absent?’ Bilbo raised his brows worriedly. ‘What do you mean?’ 

The elf closed her eyes momentarily. ‘We of the Eldar do not dream as mortals do,’ she explained softly. ‘At night we leave our bodies resting, sending our spirits up into the night to walk among the stars; wandering amid the bright cold light of forever.’

‘So… that’s what’s happening now?’ asked Bilbo. ‘She’s sleeping, and while she is doing so, her mind is… somewhere else?’ He hesitated. ‘Somewhere… that she might find it difficult to return from?’ he added carefully.

‘Indeed.’ The elf nodded. ‘You catch on swiftly, Master Baggins.’ She sighed, slowly shaking her head. ‘There are none here with the power to draw her back into this world if her spirit has become lost,’ she told him quietly. ‘It would take stronger magic than even my lord and king possesses. So we must wait for her find a way back to us.’

‘I see.’ Bilbo wrinkled his nose worriedly. ‘And this might take some time, yes?’ 

Líenna shrugged eloquently. ‘I recall times when it has taken no longer than several hours. But I have also seen it take months, or even years. There is no way to know for certain. But the longer she sleeps, the more danger she is in. Without care, her body will fade; and she will die. I have seen it before.’ 

‘Oh dear.’ Bilbo nodded, feeling his chest tighten with anxiety at the wood elf’s calm words. ‘So this is what you weren’t telling Thorin? That it could potentially take weeks, months even, for Ithilrian to wake up; and that’s supposing she ever does?’ 

‘Indeed.’ The elf sighed, a hint of weariness creeping over her serene expression. ‘You understand now why I withheld this knowledge. For it is easy to see that Oakenshield is suffering from great pain: both physically and spiritually. He does not need me to add to his woes. What he needs is a light to guide his heart through the darkness.’ 

Bilbo frowned. ‘Even if it means not telling him the truth?’ 

‘Even so.’ The elf seemed to hesitate, fixing her dark eyes once more upon the diminutive hobbit before her. ‘I have worked as a healer for centuries,’ she added softly. ‘I have seen many lives come and go; many hearts both joined and sundered. In all that time I have come to learn something. The greatest treasure in all the world is neither gold, nor jewels. It is hope.’ She sighed softly. ‘And at this time, hope is proving more precious to the lord Oakenshield than anything his mountain has to offer. It is the reason he remains here, amidst the stones of a ruined city, while his long-lost kingdom beckons; and why even now, I can yet hear him weeping at her bedside.’ She smiled sadly, half-turning her head back towards the tent, her keen ears twitching almost imperceptibly. Bilbo shuffled his feet, suddenly feeling incredibly uncomfortable. 

‘What a confounded mess,’ he muttered, almost to himself. But when he glanced up he found that Líenna’s eyes had turned to him once more, and an expression of weary contrition was on her face. 

‘I agree wholeheartedly,’ she said quietly. ‘For that is the dilemma I faced; and now you must make a choice as well. Do we tell Oakenshield the truth, and take away all that may stand between him and despair? Or do we say nothing, leaving him in ignorance a little longer, in the hope that he need never know just how close to peril his wife may be?’ 

Bilbo bit his lip, frowning worriedly. ‘Sweet Yavanna have mercy,’ he muttered in distress. ‘I suppose… you’re right. Don’t tell him; and I shan’t either. At least, not yet. But if she doesn’t wake up, then we might not have a choice.’ 

The sylvan elf bowed her head. ‘Very well. I am glad our judgment is in unison upon this matter.’ She smiled faintly. ‘But do not give in to despair, little one,’ she added softly. ‘My heart tells me that we are right to hope that the Lady Ithilrian will wake in good time.’ 

Bilbo shivered. ‘I hope you’re right,’ he replied tiredly. ‘To tell you the truth, this has all been a bit much for me. I’m just a simple hobbit. Politics and wars, great battles and life-or-death situations… it’s not what I’m cut out for. Things were so much simpler in the Shire.’ He sighed tiredly, unable to fend off the pang of sudden homesickness that shook him to the core. ‘The Shire,’ he repeated, softly and with unspoken longing, a pained smile flickering over his face. 

‘That is your homeland, is it not?’ asked the elf, her eyes glimmering with a faint curiosity. ‘A place of peace and plenty, from what I’ve heard.’ 

‘Oh, it is,’ replied Bilbo, unable to disguise the huge yawn that stretched itself over his face. ‘None of these silly wars, no dragons, no goblins… just rolling hills as far as the eye can see, good hobbit-cooked food, and all the comforts of home.’ He smiled wistfully. ‘The only fights that ever break out are over who’s grown the season’s best tomatoes,’ he added, half to himself. 

A warm smile flickered briefly in Líenna’s eyes. ‘One day, I would like to hear more about your land of Shire,’ she replied. ‘It sounds a wondrous realm indeed. But for now, Master Baggins, I recommend sleep. You would do well to find a place to rest.’ 

‘Mmm.’ Bilbo nodded, wrapping his tattered coat more firmly around him, for all the comfort it gave. ‘I think I’ll head back into the mountain. It’s warmer in there, at least.’ 

‘A wise decision,’ agreed the elf. ‘Do you have need of an escort?’ 

‘Me? No, I’ll be perfectly all right,’ Bilbo reassured her. ‘It’s not exactly as if I can get lost, after all. Besides, that’s where the rest of my friends are. I think I’ll go and see how they’re getting on before turning in.’ 

Nodding a respectful goodbye to the sylvan elf, Bilbo set off for the Lonely Mountain. Pale and stark it rose above the landscape, its snowcapped peak glistening in solitary blood-red splendor in the last rays of the dying light. Bilbo kept his eyes fixed upon it as his weary feet took him back into the valley, trying desperately not to look at the bodies of the slain still lying upon the battlefield. Elves, men, and dwarves alike had begun moving among the corpses, recovering their fallen comrades, carrying them aside to be laid out respectfully; while the bodies of the orcs were left where they fell. 

Exhausted, battle-weary, and beginning to shiver violently from the cold, it felt like an eternity before Bilbo was standing once more before Erebor. He squinted up at the imposing height of the reinforced gates, internally cursing dwarven engineering. He was in no mood to try and shimmy up the dangling rope that was the only current way into the mountain. So when the gruff voices of Oin and Gloin called a hearty greeting to him from atop the battlements, offering to pull him up, he accepted with undisguised relief. 

He held on tightly as the dwarves lent their formidable strength; and he fairly flew up the mountainside, grateful when a pair of strong hands reached out to help him over the ledge. The dim warmth of Erebor came as a welcome relief as he stumbled inside. He barely glanced at the Iron Hill dwarves who were puttering to and fro, making his way towards the secluded hall where they’d all been camped before. _It seems like eons ago,_ he thought dully to himself. _Before Thorin fought off the dragon sickness, before Thranduil and Bard arrived… before the battle started. It all seems like a bit of a dream, really._

‘Hey, Bilbo! Bilbo! Stop! Where are you going?’ 

He sighed with relief as a blessedly familiar voice ran out, and warm, sturdy shape swept him into an enormous one-armed bear hug. ‘Bofur,’ he mumbled, smiling into the dwarf’s rough leather jerkin.

‘Aye, it’s me.’ The dwarf eventually released him, stepping back and winking cheerily. But Bilbo’s smile faltered once he was able to take a good look at the dwarf. Bofur’s left arm was in a sling, and a dark, painful-looking bruise was swelling over his cheekbone. 

‘What happened?’ he asked urgently, stepping closer once more and pulling the dwarf towards him. ‘Are you all right? Are you badly hurt? Do you need to go to the healing tents?’ 

Bofur shook his head, still grinning, his pigtails waggling comically. The irrepressible dwarf had somehow managed to keep his hat on throughout the entire ordeal. ‘Don’t you worry your pretty head about me,’ he reassured the anxious halfling. ‘I just got a bit of a bump and a dislocated shoulder. That’s all. There’s other folk who’re far worse off.’ His smile faltered; but only for a moment. ‘It’s good to see ye Bilbo,’ he added quietly. ‘When I couldn’t find you on the battlefield, I thought… I was afraid that…’ he hesitated, shuffling his feet nervously. Bilbo smiled, feeling relieved warmth coursing through him as he met Bofur’s honey-brown eyes. 

‘It’s okay. I’m fine. Barely a scratch on me, look,’ he reassured the concerned dwarf, before finding himself tugged back into a fierce embrace. 

‘Good.’ Bofur’s voice was muffled, his head buried in Bilbo’s curls. ‘That’s good. I cant tell ye how relieved I am to see you safe.’ He let out a deep sigh. ‘That is, as long as you still… I mean, you don’t think… you haven’t changed your mind about… us?’ 

‘What?’ Bilbo gaped. ‘Why would I?’ He stepped back, pulling himself out of the embrace, looking Bofur firmly in the eye. ‘Silly dwarf,’ he said quietly, feeling the faint sting of tears beginning in his eyes. ‘Silly, block-headed, stubborn, lovely dwarf.’ He felt himself beginning to shake, as his chest heaved, and he let out a sound that was half sob, and half laughter. 

‘Ahh, y’have such lovely pet names for me,’ replied Bofur hoarsely, pulling Bilbo back into another one-armed embrace, kissing the top of his curly head. ‘By Mahal, Bilbo, you’re shaking,’ he added, concern clouding his expression. ‘Your hands are freezing. Come on. Let’s get you upstairs.’ 

Bilbo nodded dumbly. All the pent-up fear he had repressed during the battle; all the worry over the lives of his friends; all of it came flooding out at once, released by the gentle concern of the dwarf he’d grown to love. He allowed Bofur’s sturdy hand to guide him up to the chamber where they’d set up camp, not even bothering to halt the flow of silent tears that were sliding down his cheeks. _It’s over,_ his tired thoughts whispered numbly, as he lay down on a bedroll and felt the familiar weight of his dwarf settle at his side. _It’s all finally over._ He yawned widely, snuggling even further into the comforting warmth, allowing his eyes to drift close as sleep finally overcame the exhausted hobbit. 

~

It took a long time for Thorin to surface dully into waking, gritting his teeth against the insistent throbbing agony in his shoulder. For a moment, panic took him as he forced his bleary eyes open; before recollection hit him like a hammer blow, and he remembered exactly where he was; and why he had fallen asleep on the cold stone floor. 

‘Ithilrian,’ he mumbled. The word fell from his lips like a prayer as he pulled himself to his knees, blinking tiredly in the pale light that was filtering through a gap in the tent where it abutted a ruined stone wall. He ran a hand through his tangled hair in frustration as he gazed down at the face of his still-slumbering elf. _Please,_ he thought bitterly. _Please, hurry up and wake. I need you by my side._

‘Ithilrian,’ he repeated softly, laying a tentative hand on her blanket-covered shoulder; as though hoping that his touch, his shaking voice, might be the thing to bring her back from whatever far-away starlit skies her mind was wandering. ‘Ithilrian, _kurdûnuh_ … please, you have to wake up.’ 

The silence was his only answer. Still she did not stir; and Thorin felt his heart twist painfully in his chest. _What if she does not wake?_ His treacherous inner thought whispered anxiously. _What if she is too far gone?_

He shook himself angrily. He was _not_ going to think like that. He was _not_ going to expect the worst. He was going to grit his teeth and face whatever challenges the dawn brought, with or without her at his side; in preparation for the day when she would stand at his side as queen. 

‘I have to leave now,’ he murmured softly to the unhearing figure of the woman he loved. He bit his lip fiercely, almost drawing blood. _No,_ his inner thought cried out. _No! Don’t go! Don’t leave her all alone in this place!_ He clenched his fists angrily. She will not be alone, he told himself sternly. There were elves, men and dwarves all around. She would be cared for. He would see to it.

‘Do not be afraid,’ he murmured to her, knowing that she could hear him not; yet still, talking to her seemed to ease the dim, cold ache that was growing inside his chest. ‘You wont be alone for long. I must go to the mountain now; but as soon as I can, I’ll take you there too. You’ll be safe inside, away from the cold, out of this grim place. I’ll come back for you soon: I promise.’ 

He rose slowly to his feet, clenching his teeth against the cold. Some time during the evening a kindly soul had placed a heavy cloak over him like a blanket; and now he wrapped it more firmly around his shoulders, pushing back the tentflap and gazing out. Over the course of a single night, winter seemed to have folded the land tightly into its earth-numbing embrace. A heavy frost lined the ruins of Dale’s streets, hard and bright and glittering as, flake by flake, a gentle snowfall began to drift from the grey-clouded sky, covering the bodies of the fallen warriors with a pale, glimmering shroud.

_Time to get to work,_ Thorin thought grimly. He might be injured; but he was still the King. The dwarves would be looking to him for direction; and after all that he had struggled and fought for, he was damned if he was going to simply lie back in a sickbed and allow others to shoulder his duties. Besides, he had several clear ideas about what needed to be done. 

‘Thorin! Cousin, are you down there?’ The gruff, booming voice of Dain Ironfoot reached his ears. He groaned. His throat felt raw and painful as he raised his voice in reluctant reply. 

‘I am here,’ he said gruffly, as the broad shape of the Lord of the Iron Hills lumbered into view. 

‘Ah, there y’are, you old grouch.’ Dain stumped up to him, still clad in his imposing battle armor. ‘By Mahal, you look a mess,’ he added, raising his brows and grinning. ‘Got yourself a good scar on that shoulder, aye?’ He nudged Thorin playfully. The wounded dwarf tried not to wince at the sudden icy coldness of Dain’s armored elbow against his vulnerable ribs. 

‘I am fine,’ he replied through clenched teeth. ‘Don’t fuss over me, Dain. You make a poor nursemaid by any standards.’ 

The truculent dwarf burst out into raucous guffaws. ‘Aye, that I do! So, stop moping around here, get yourself up to that mountain, and sit on that bloody throne! We only went through a bleedin’ war so that you could reclaim this blasted kingdom. So, why aren’t ye up there now, kinging away?’ 

Thorin scowled, turning away from his bawdy cousin. ‘I had… other business to attend to first,’ he replied gruffly. 

‘Oh aye? Other business, is it?’ Dain raised his bushy eyebrows, glancing back through the open flap in the tent that Thorin had just exited by. Ithilrian was clearly visible through the gap. In the cold, white light of the recent snowfall, the elf looked less like a living, breathing creature; more like an exquisite statue carved from palest marble. A sudden, irrational fear took hold of Thorin at the thought. He was forced to repress the rising urge to dart back inside and run his fingers through her hair, to touch her cheek and lips to make sure she hadn’t been somehow turned to stone. 

‘Damn it, Thorin,’ grunted the dwarf lord, glancing warily back up at his cousin. ‘A shame about the lass,’ he added in a quieter voice, nodding to the prone figure of the sleeping elf. ‘I’m sure she’ll be missed. But really, Thorin, come on. Don’t tell me y’were actually thinking about marrying her…?’ 

Thorin snarled. Before he even knew what he was doing, he had shoved Dain fiercely, pinning him against a wall with a hand at his throat. Despite his injury, Thorin’s formidable strength had not deserted him. ‘Do not speak of her like that,’ he growled dangerously. ‘As though she is already as good as dead. As though the fact that she’s not of our blood makes her somehow unworthy. I will tell you this now, Dain: she _will_ wake. And when she does, I intend to marry her; and have her crowned as my queen. This I will swear to you, upon anything you care to name.’ He stepped backwards, releasing his astounded cousin, who had been too shocked to even raise a hand to defend himself.

‘Blood and thunder,’ swore Dain, rubbing his neck ruefully. ‘You really do mean that, don’t you?’ He narrowed his eyes, scanning Thorin’s scowling face carefully.

‘I do.’ Thorin set his jaw grimly, his hands balling into fists. ‘And if you knew even half of what we’ve been through, and what has happened to lead us here, you would understand.’ 

‘Aye? Then it seems like ye’d best tell me everything,’ replied Dain slowly. ‘Because y’must remember laddie, only you and your Company knows the full story. To the rest of us, she’s just another bloody elf. So if you’re truly serious about this, get your thinking helmet on; and figure out a way to make this work.’ 

Thorin nodded reluctantly, feeling the sudden surge of protective rage beginning to diminish. His cousin might be brash, loud, argumentative and downright tactless most of the time; but in this case, he was also right. ‘Sorry,’ he grunted by way of apology. ‘I didn’t mean to…’ 

Dain chuckled, waving away the dwarf king’s words. ‘No need, cousin. But come on. There’s work t’be done; and remember, you’re the king now. The lads are looking to you for direction. Make sure you choose your actions wisely, eh?’ 

Thorin nodded, grim determination flooding hotly through his veins. ‘Very well. But I will need your help in this, Dain.’ 

‘Of course you will,’ scoffed the warlike dwarf, his eyes glittering with anticipation. ‘Ye can tell me the whole sodding tale as we go back to the mountain, if ye’ve a mind to. Then we’ll figure out what needs t’be done.’ 

~

It didn’t take long for Thorin to tell Dain everything. Steeling himself and racking his memory, he left nothing out, explaining everything that had happened over the past few months; although he was less than forthcoming about the details of the night he and Ithilrian had spent in Laketown, and the impromptu wedding that had occurred there.

_That particular piece of information can wait for a bit,_ he thought with a grim smile. _He doesn’t need to know: yet._ But by the time he reached the final stage of the tale, he felt the words falter in his throat. He did not want to speak of that last, fearsome battle upon the ice. The memory was still too raw. He closed his eyes tightly, still seeing the glittering malice in Azog’s beady eyes as he swung his flail; still hearing that terrible _crunch_ as the heavy boulder had crushed Ithilrian’s armored chest as though the elf had been wearing nothing but tinfoil. 

‘S’allright Thorin,’ Dain told him, with a surprising gruff gentleness. ‘I reckon I can fill in the rest myself.’ The warrior dwarf scratched his beard thoughtfully. ‘I guess I can see it all a wee bit clearer now,’ he added thoughtfully. ‘I mean, don’t get me wrong. I’d sooner shave my beard than marry a bloody leaf-eater. But by the sound of it, she’s been a right loyal lass to ye all along, yes? Ten years, if’n you’re telling the truth.’ 

‘Yes.’ Thorin nodded decisively. ‘She has loyalty, honour; a willing heart. I could ask no more than that; yet of her own free will, she has given me _everything:_ body and soul. Without her, my whole quest would have been in vain. I do not wish to count the times she has saved our lives.’ 

‘Aye.’ Dain grinned craftily, a glimmer of mischief beginning to twinkle in his dark eyes. ‘Well, if you’re still hellbent on marrying her, then I’ve got a wee proposal for ye.’ 

Thorin raised his brows questioningly. ‘Let’s hear it, then.’ He clenched his fists anxiously, uncertain of what to expect; but his irritation soon turned into surprise as his strategic cousin outlined his cunning plan. 

‘So, Thorin. You’ve got a couple of good story-spinners in your company, aye? Balin tells a good tale; and I hear that Bofur’s got a way with words as well. Get them to start spreading the gossip around like good’uns. You know how fast news travels in a place like this. My lads are already dying to hear how exactly how a handful of dwarves managed to reclaim Erebor from under the nose of an enormous fire-breathing lizard; so, get your lot to tell them. Give them what they want.’ Dain nodded happily, warming to his scheme. ‘After all, ye may not realize it, but this is the stuff of legends,’ he added. ‘And trust me, the lads are all eager to be a part of it. So, let ‘em. Tell the tale. Make them understand; and make sure ye tell your lot to big up the elf’s part in it all, aye? Get them to lay it on thick about the romance too.’ The crafty dwarf winked broadly. ‘Trust me: in a few days time, the rumors will be flying. By the time yon elf wakes up, I reckon at least half the mountain will be stamping their feet, impatient to crown a new queen. Ye’ll likely not even get a choice in the matter any more.’ 

Thorin nodded slowly, impressed by his cousin’s cleverness. ‘You truly think that will work?’

‘Why not?’ Dain grinned. ‘Y’know, most people don’t realize that I’m not nearly as stupid as I look; as my lovely wife Dála is so fond of saying.’

Thorin huffed out a breath of laughter. Despite the weight of anxiety on his shoulders, and despite his fears about Ithilrian’s injury, his heart felt a little lighter. Worry was still gnawing at him; but for the moment, Thorin could not help but return his cousin’s smile. ‘Very well,’ he nodded gruffly. ‘Let us begin.’ 

~

The following days passed by in a blur. Dosed up on elvish pain tonics, Thorin strode regally around his newly reclaimed kingdom, barking out orders to all and sundry. Much to the initial surprise of many, the first order he gave was for the heavily fortified main gates to be taken down, so that sanctuary could be offered to all who had fought in the final battle: elves, dwarves, and men alike. 

It was a bold gesture, but one that met with surprisingly little opposition. Winter had truly fallen upon the land; and almost every day saw the ground outside turn white beneath a heavy frost, while flakes of glimmering snow hung swirling in the air. The wounded were moved out of Dale with all speed, taken deep into the safety of Erebor’s cavernous halls, where the heat of the re-lit dwarven forges filled the mountain with blessedly welcome warmth. 

A brief council had been held between the respective leaders: Thorin, Bard, Thranduil, Dain; and Gandalf too, of course. Tentative alliances were formed, and plans for the winter were laid out. The decision was made unanimously that the Lakemen would remain inside Erebor over the winter, protected from the harsh weather by the mountain’s sturdy walls. In return, they would aid the dwarves with the reconstruction of their home, helping to repair the damage Smaug had done during his occupation; before turning towards the resettling of Dale in the spring. 

To the surprise of everyone except Gandalf, Thranduil also announced his intention to remain in Erebor a little longer. After all, there were still wounded from the battle to attend to; and everybody agreed wholeheartedly that the sylvan healers had been doing a superb job. It was decided that the elven regiments would split in two: half to remain behind with the healers, to help guard the mountain against any further attack, and to aid with the reconstruction work wherever possible. The other half would ferry supplies to and fro from Mirkwood (after being handsomely compensated from Erebor’s treasure vaults, of course). After all, there were no other sources of food to be found; no other settlements this close to the desolation of the dragon. 

Throughout it all, Thorin found himself prowling restlessly through Erebor’s now thrumming corridors. The days were passing swiftly; and each new dawn saw an improvement to both Erebor’s security, and to the relations between the different peoples dwelling within. For despite the damage that Smaug had wreaked, there was nothing that couldn’t be repaired or remade by the sturdy dwarven craftsmen. Aided by the willing strength of the lakemen, and the keen eyes of the elves, Dain’s people had begun the repairs with enthusiasm, often relying on the wood elves’ superior vision to tell them exactly where a break or fault in the stone might be; even occasionally asking the light-boned sylvan folk to scale the massive statues and towers, which they did with far greater ease than any man or dwarf might do, in order to bring back reports of the halls’ structural integrity. 

It was all Thorin had hoped for, and more. But despite it all, he found himself wandering the corridors alone much of the time, as misery wrapped its bitter cloak tighter and tighter around him with each passing hour. For as the passing days began to stretch into weeks, Ithilrian still did not awaken. 

Thorin scowled fiercely. One solitary consolation was that Dain’s cunning scheme had worked, even better than he had hoped. That very same day that he had left Dale, Thorin had gathered his company together, asking his cousin to outline the plan to them. There had been several muffled snorts of laughter at the idea; as well as at some of the more colorful language the Lord of the Iron hills had employed. 

However, the plan was a success. Whispers had begun to spread, about both Ithilrian and Thorin. Within hours, the whole mountain seemed to know about their relationship; and instead of the dark looks and anger that Thorin had half-expected to meet with, instead he seemed to be regarded with a combination of awe and pity. For rumors about Ithilrian’s heritage had also run like wildfire through the mountain citadel, growing wilder by the day. Some said that she was already the queen of a far-off distant land; or that she was the long-lost heir to an ancient elven throne; or that she was a spirit of light, sent to Middle Earth by Mahal himself to aid Thorin in his quest. 

Thorin smiled bitterly to himself. He cared little about the tales being told behind his back; although with his customary canniness, Nori had lost no time in setting up a fairly decent spy network to keep an ear on the rumors. What pleased him was the fact that the men and dwarves, instead of just the other elves, were suddenly treating Ithilrian with a respect bordering on reverence. Her unconscious body had been moved with care from the main infirmary, into a smaller separate chamber for privacy; with a pair of either dwarves or elves perpetually on guard outside. For, as Balin had said, loudly and in a crowded hall, it simply wouldn’t do for the future queen of Erebor to lie wounded and vulnerable without any form of protection around her. 

It was towards that small chamber that Thorin found his weary feet taking him again. He had begun to frequent it more and more of late, as a dim, cold loneliness seemed to settle like an old friend in the pit of his stomach. He was reminded bitterly of the bitter days and empty nights he’d spent in Ered Luin: and as before, his hand crept often towards the Twilight Stone around his neck. But no matter how many times he took it in his hand and called to her, still she did not awake. Even when he clutched the jewel so tightly that the delicate silverwork incised small red marks into his palm; even during the times that anguish overwhelmed him in the cold, dead hours before dawn, when bitter tears spilled from his eyes onto the smooth, pale stone; even when he called her name aloud, his voice hoarse and trembling; she did not appear to him. She simply lay, like one struck into stone, the gentle rise and fall of her breathing the only sign of life. But it was a sign that Thorin clung to with grim determination. 

_She will wake up soon,_ he told himself for the umpteenth time. _It will not be long now. It cannot be._ He reached the narrow doorway, nodding in greeting to the pair of dwarven guards outside. They saluted him respectfully, showing no surprise at his sudden appearance as he pushed open the door, stepping inside and pulling it silently shut behind him. 

The room was lit by candlelight. Thorin smiled sadly, taking small comfort in the familiar golden glow as he stepped almost reverently towards Ithilrian’s sickbed. It was the dawn of the thirtieth day since the Battle of the Five Armies, as the dwarves had taken to calling it. He knelt at the side of her bed, gazing fondly down at the sleeping elf, feeling a familiar ache stirring in his chest. 

‘So… I know you cannot hear me,’ he began falteringly. ‘Or maybe you can. I don’t know. Ithilrian, I just… miss you.’ He paused. The words faltered in his throat, choking him, making his breath come in hard, ragged gasps as he gazed down at her immobile features. _Please, just one blink; just one smile,_ he thought desperately. _Give me a sign. An omen. Anything._

‘Work on the mountain is still going well,’ he began again, trying to steady his breathing. ‘You’d be delighted, _amrâlimê._ How I wish you could see it all happening; the bustle, the busyness… everything.’ He smiled sadly and shook his head. ‘Please hurry back to me, _ghivashel,’_ he added softly. ‘It doesn’t seem right that all we have hoped for; all we have fought for; is happening without you.’ He laid one hand on her silver hair, as a dry, rasping sob rose sickeningly within him. 

He raised his head at the sound of a tentative knock on the door. Anger swirled briefly at the interruption. ‘Who is there?’ he snapped, more harshly than he’d intended to. 

‘I’m sorry, Thorin.’ Balin poked his head apologetically around the door, his brown eyes softening with pity as he took in the scene before him. ‘I hate to disturb you laddie, but you’re needed at the gates. A party of elves has just arrived.’ 

‘What of it?’ replied Thorin wearily. ‘They’ve been doing that all season, Balin. Just let them in and have done with it.’ 

‘Aye, well there’s the thing.’ Balin frowned. ‘They’re not from Mirkwood, these elves. They’re strangers. Their leader won’t even give the gate guards his name. All he will say is that they’ve travelled far, and that he wants to speak with you specifically. He’s asking for you by name.’ 

Thorin groaned internally. The last thing he wanted to do was to be forced into another long, hard day of political maneuvering. Dawn had barely even broken; and all he wanted to do was spend a little time alone with the woman he loved. No matter that she could neither see nor hear him; simply to be with her, to be reminded that she was still there, and could potentially reawaken at any moment, gave him the strength to get through the day. _Can they not even allow me such a simple thing?_ He thought bitterly. _One moment of peace, can they not give us that?_

‘Very well,’ he replied heavily, rising reluctantly to his feet and casting a lingering, sorrowful glance at Ithilrian. ‘Take me there, Balin. Let’s see what fresh headache this day will bring.’ He trudged wearily after his old friend, through the winding corridors and pathways, until he reached the entrance hall. 

There, true to Balin’s word, stood a small company of elves. They numbered almost thirty in total, and all were heavily hooded and cloaked in shimmering grey. He strode forwards to meet them, setting his jaw firmly, trying to appear every inch the king he did not yet feel himself to be. 

‘I am Thorin, son of Thrain, son of Thror,’ he announced, halting directly in front of their leader. ‘I am told you desired to speak with me?’ 

‘So I did, son of Thrain,’ a low male voice answered. ‘For you have much to answer for, I deem.’ 

‘Answer for?’ echoed Thorin, his brows rising irritably. ‘Speak plainly. Who are you, and what is your purpose within my lands?’ 

‘My purpose lies within this mountain,’ the mysterious elf replied. ‘For within these walls you harbor a treasure far greater than you know. I wish to see the Lady Ithilrian. Where have you hidden her?’ 

Thorin felt a tendril of protective anger coiling around his chest. ‘The Lady Ithilrian has been wounded,’ he replied stiffly. ‘She is under the care of our healers. Whatever business you have with her must wait; for she is not currently able to speak with you.’

‘I am well aware of that.’ The stranger raised his hands, lifting the hood away from his face. Thorin caught his breath. A familiar pair of grey eyes stared out of the elf’s stern, ageless face, and a wave of gleaming silver hair spilled smoothly over his broad cloaked shoulders. 

‘Who are you?’ Thorin breathed, his voice dropping to a low growl of astonishment. 

‘My name is Celeborn,’ the elf replied quietly. ‘You may have heard it once before. I am Lord of the Golden Wood, in the lands far south of here.’ He smiled grimly. ‘I am also the Lady Ithilrian’s father.’ 

~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translation notes: 
> 
> Sindarin: 
> 
> Le suilon, hîr vuin = Greetings, my lord _(formal)_  
>  I eneth nîn Líenna. Man anírol? = My name is Líenna. What do you want (what can I help you with)?  
> Cala'quessir = high elf  
> Taur'quessir = wood elf
> 
> Khuzdul:
> 
> Kurdûnuh = my heart  
> Amrâlimê = my love  
> Ghivashel = treasure of treasures


	47. A Slow Awakening

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Celeborn tells Thorin exactly what he thinks of him; and Ithilrian finally awakes.

Thorin’s heart dropped like a stone in his chest. The Lord of Lothlórien’s pale grey eyes were so alike to Ithilrian’s that he felt the breath hitch in his throat. But while Ithilrian’s gaze was tender and loving when turned towards him, the Lord Celeborn’s eyes bored into him like twin shards of ice. 

He swallowed hard. ‘My greetings, Lord of the Golden Wood,’ he intoned solemnly. His heart was pattering nervously in his chest; but still he held his head up proudly, and met the elven lord’s stern gaze steadily. ‘Welcome to Erebor.’ 

The elf inclined his head fractionally. ‘My thanks,’ he replied coldly. ‘But I have little patience for meaningless pleasantries today. I wish to see my daughter.’ 

‘Very well.’ Thorin set his jaw, determined not the let Ithilrian’s father intimidate him. ‘Follow me, and I shall take you to her.’ He spun on his heel without any further words and stalked away. He resisted the urge to glance over his shoulder, confident that the elf would follow him. 

He was not wrong. Occasionally he caught a glimpse of the elf lord from the corner of his eye as they strode through Erebor’s winding passages. He spoke no further words; and the elf made no attempt at conversation. Finally, they reached Ithilrian’s sickroom. Thorin hesitated only fractionally before pushing the doors wide, stepping back to allow the elven lord to enter. He swept past Thorin in a flurry of grey, stooping immediately to Ithilrian’s side. A soft sigh fell from his lips.

_‘Iston i nîf gîn, henig,’_ he murmured softly. _‘Av-'osto. Odulen an edraith angina.’_

Thorin hesitated, still hovering awkwardly in the doorway as a stream of quiet sindarin fell from the stern elf’s lips. He did not understand the words; but he could recognize grief when he heard it. 

‘I take my leave,’ he mumbled gruffly, not wanting to intrude further. Celeborn did not even deign to acknowledge his words. The elven lord’s shoulders seemed suddenly bowed, and his silver head was dipped towards the pale, still form of his youngest daughter. Thorin felt his stomach knotting itself with guilt as he closed the door as quietly as possible, stepping back into the corridor and running a hand through his hair in frustration. 

_Durin’s beard,_ he thought grimly. _That… could have gone better. In fact, it’s hard to imagine how it could have gone any worse._ He huffed a grim laugh under his breath, imagining Ithilrian turning her warm grey eyes towards him; imagining her laughter at his less-than-ideal introduction to her father. _She would smile at this, I just know it,_ he thought bitterly. _How I wish she were awake. How I wish…_

He trailed off, shaking his head angrily. Wishing would change nothing, he told himself firmly. He strode determinedly away from Ithilrian’s room without even knowing where he was going; just knowing that he needed to simply walk, somewhere, anywhere; trying to outpace the misery that hung over him like a dark cloud, trying to ignore the gnawing anxiety sitting in the pit of his stomach. 

His wandering feet took him up to the higher levels of Erebor. Up here were the royal apartments, the rooms once held by his family in the days before the dragon. Here, the seams of gold veining the rock were especially bright and lustrous; but Thorin strode right past them, unheeding. He was heading towards the suit known formally as the _Madtubirzûl,_ the Golden Heart; but known more informally as the queen’s chambers. They had once belonged to his mother; and now, Thorin had been planning to give them to Ithilrian as her own private space. 

He slipped quietly through the heavy oaken doors, closing them softly behind him. The chamber walls were all intricately carved, and set with many glimmering stones: quartz, opal, diamond, and moonstone, all to reflect the pale light coming from what was, in Thorin’s opinion, the room’s most important feature. The balcony. 

It was one of the very few places in Erebor that could open to the outside world. Beyond the heavy doors at the end of the chamber lay a broad, sweeping ledge, surmounted by a stone rail. Placed high enough in the mountain to command a spectacular view of the surrounding lands, it was a place Thorin remembered treasuring as a dwarfling. He had come there many times, seeking the solitude of the vast open space; gazing longingly out into the distance, and wondering what lay beyond the borders of his grandfather’s kingdom. 

The doors creaked loudly as he pushed against them, and a great rush of freezing air swirled suddenly around him, cold enough to steal his breath momentarily. Despite his layers of clothing, he shivered. A light snowfall had dusted the balcony floor, crunching crisply beneath his boots as he stepped up to the rail. He folded his arms and leaned forwards, allowing the sturdy rock to take a little of his weight. The sun was beginning to climb high in the sky, only visible as a faint pale glow behind a thick bank of snow-laden clouds. 

Thorin sighed heavily. He knew he should not be here. There were undoubtedly duties to attend to in the mountain below. Everybody seemed to want his opinion these days, upon matters both weighty and trivial. He had managed to delegate the majority of the diplomatic headaches to Balin, as well as giving Dwalin free reign to collaborate with Dain’s soldiers about the defense of Erebor. Ori and Dori had taken it upon themselves to begin restoring what remained of Erebor’s crafting guilds: the tinkers, the toymakers, the weavers and tailors… the list went on and on.

But despite the willing help of his comrades and friends, Thorin still felt overwhelmed by the largeness of it all. Running the settlements in Ered Luin had been child’s play compared to the vastness of a place like Erebor. At times, it all felt like too much for one person to bear alone. 

_This is why I need you,_ he thought silently, gripping the stone rail so tightly his knuckles turned white, hoping against hope that wherever Ithilrian was, she could hear him. _We all need you. I miss you. Fili and Kili miss you. Please, my heart. Come back._ He swallowed hard, gazing out over the mist-shrouded landscape. He wondered what on earth to do about Ithilrian’s father’s presence within the mountain. Should he arrange for an honor guard, to show the proper respect to the ruler of a foreign kingdom? It seemed like a bad idea; Celeborn had clearly not been in the mood for such formalities. But at the same time, he didn’t want the elven lord to think Thorin was showing him or his daughter any disrespect. 

_To hell with it all,_ thought Thorin frustratedly, clenching his fist on the balcony rail. _Why did he even come here in the first place? How did he know Ithilrian had been hurt? Does that mean he knows about our betrothal; our marriage? And most importantly: what is he going to do about it all?_

‘Oakenshield.’ 

The cool, stern voice of Lord Celeborn sounded almost directly behind him. Thorin almost swallowed his tongue in shock. So engrossed in his own thoughts had he been, that he had not noticed the tall elf’s silent approach. 

‘Lord Celeborn,’ he replied, fighting to keep his tone neutral. ‘What brings you here?’ 

The elven lord came to stand beside him, leaning lightly on the rail and gazing out at the rain-veiled horizon. ‘What do you mean?’ he asked quietly. ‘Do you mean to ask what brought me to your kingdom this day; or what has brought me to your side at this moment?’ 

Thorin’s eyes widened. ‘The latter one,’ he replied, after a moment’s hesitation. 

‘Ah.’ The pale elf nodded. He glanced sideways at Thorin. ‘It has come to my attention that I was… less than courteous towards you earlier. In my worry and haste to see my daughter, I spoke without thought. My apologies for that.’ 

‘It is no trouble,’ Thorin replied gruffly, with some surprise. ‘I understand, and share, your concern about Ithilrian.’ 

‘Do you?’ The elf’s gaze hardened. Cold fury seemed to radiate from his pale grey eyes, focused entirely on the dwarf before him. ‘I find that difficult to believe, son of Thrain,’ he added quietly. ‘But if you care so much for Ithilrian, then think upon this. Over four centuries have passed since I last saw my daughter. I came to Erebor to take her home; only to find her lying bruised and broken, barely breathing, wounded near to death in a foolish war she had no business being part of.’ 

Thorin opened his mouth to speak, before thinking better of it and closing it again. Somewhere amidst the anger in the pale elf’s voice was a thread of bitter grief. _He has already lost one daughter,_ Thorin’s inner thought reminded him. _Now he fears that he’s about to lose the other._

‘I am sorry,’ he replied quietly. Guilt, that insidious worm, was writhing sickeningly in the pit of his gut. ‘It was not my intent to…’ 

‘You are… sorry?’ The elf arched a single elegant eyebrow skeptically. ‘You drag my youngest child miles over vale and hill; over mountains and through cursed forests; through dragonfire and bloody battle; and all you can say is _sorry?’_

Thorin felt his temper rising. ‘What else would you have me say?’ he replied hotly. ‘If I could change how things turned out, I would. I would give my life for hers in a heartbeat; this I swear.’ He ground the words out from between clenched teeth, staring challengingly up at the cold lord of Lórien. ‘Besides, she came with me of her own free will. No oath nor bond was laid on her to go further than she wished.’ 

Celeborn’s eyes flashed angrily. ‘So you say, son of Durin. Yet now you would place a yoke upon her that would tie her to you; to this place; to the narrow span of your mortal years?’ A muscle twitched in the elven lord’s jaw, betraying his inner turmoil. ‘I know what it is that brought her here: that tied her to you, and to this thrice-cursed quest of yours,’ he added softly.

Thorin snarled, anger swirling hotly within him. ‘She came on this quest because she had hope! She wanted to help my people reclaim their homeland!’ he snapped, his voice rising defensively. 

‘You are wrong. She came for _you;_ but she belongs with her people!’ Celeborn’s voice was low and dangerous, dripping with icy fury. ‘I will not leave my daughter here to die. For she believes that you love her, Oakenshield. She believes it so completely that it blinds her to all else.’ 

Thorin felt a scowl creasing his forehead. ‘You doubt the strength of my feelings for Ithilrian?’ he rumbled angrily. 

‘Among other things, yes.’ The pale elf’s lips thinned to a hard, uncompromising line. ‘I find it hard to credit that a dwarf could even understand, let alone return, the depth of feeling that comes with the forging of an elven bond. Such things are far beyond the scope of mortal hearts.’

‘Then perhaps I may yet surprise you,’ Thorin replied through gritted teeth. ‘Ithilrian has told me much about such bonding; and more than that besides. I have felt for myself the very depth and strength of it.’ He smiled grimly at the expression that flickered briefly over the elven lord’s face. 

‘You mean to say…?’ Celeborn appeared momentarily taken aback, hesitating as though he was steeling himself to ask the next question. ‘You and she have… bonded already, then? You are wed?’ 

‘We are,’ replied Thorin firmly. ‘And while dwarf law may not yet acknowledge her as my wife, I intend to change that as soon as I am able.’ He raised a single eyebrow in challenge, meeting the old lord’s stern gaze fearlessly. ‘I may not know all the correct words for it in elvish,’ he added coldly. ‘But do not dare to doubt me, my lord Celeborn, when I tell you that I love your daughter. We are bonded, both body and soul; and I would give anything to see her safe and well once again.’ 

‘I see.’ The elf’s jaw tightened in anger. ‘But the simple fact remains: you are mortal, and she is elf-kind. One day, son of Durin, you will die; be it tomorrow, a year, a hundred years from now. And when you do, the pain you will bring my daughter may kill her.’ 

Thorin snorted. ‘I am well aware of my own mortality,’ he replied dryly. ‘I am reminded of it every day.’ He shifted slightly, ignoring a stab of pain from his wounded shoulder, and the guilt still churning within his gut. ‘Ithilrian knows it too,’ he added quietly. ‘She has spoken of it before, albeit only briefly. I think the words she used were: _a price I am willing to pay.’_

‘Indeed?’ Celeborn’s pale eyes narrowed calculatingly. Thorin nodded, matching him stare for stare, feeling his heart swell as he raised his voice in defense of his lover. 

‘Ithilrian is as strong a woman as ever I’ve known,’ he said. ‘Do not think she took this decision lightly, Lord Celeborn. Your daughter is fierce, and brave, and the most beautiful being ever to have walked this earth. But beneath her gentle eyes lies steel. Underneath her kind heart lurks a fire I have never seen before.’ He smiled at the memories that bubbled up within him, ignoring the sudden intensity of the elven lord’s gaze. 

‘I know you believe I’m not worthy of her,’ he continued, matching Celeborn stare for stare. ‘And in that respect, you are right: for no man ever could be. But, by the grace of the Valar, she chose me.’ He felt something bright and golden rising in his chest as he spoke, warming him, the thought of Ithilrian’s silvery laughter filling him with quiet strength. ‘She chose me,’ he repeated softly. ‘Do you not respect her choice, Lord Celeborn? Or would you sweep her away from here, back to the Golden Woods, against her will?’ 

The elf’s expression darkened momentarily; before a shadow seemed to pass across his face, and he bent his head as though in sudden weariness. ‘No,’ he murmured quietly. ‘No, I would not.’ He shook his head slowly. ‘Ever she has been the wild one,’ he added, the glimmer of a smile ghosting over his stern features. ‘Ithilrian has her mother’s strength, and her grandfather’s stubbornness. Trying to make her go somewhere against her will is like asking water to run uphill.’ 

Thorin smiled ruefully. ‘So I have seen.’ He glanced up at Celeborn, surprised to see the elf no longer regarding him with anger or displeasure. His expression was still stern; but his grey eyes had softened into something bordering on respect. 

‘It appears I may have misjudged you, Thorin Oakenshield,’ said the elven lord quietly. ‘Let it not be said that all dwarves are grasping and unfeeling. As much as I may wish it were otherwise, my daughter has been drawn to you; and I know her well enough to believe that she would not give her heart so freely to one unworthy of loyalty.’ 

Thorin swallowed hard. ‘Thank you,’ he replied hoarsely. But the elf waved away his words with a single weary gesture. 

‘Do not thank me, son of Durin,’ he said, his voice tinged with sorrow. ‘I am simply a tired father trying to do right by his child.’ He shook his silver head. ‘I must go now,’ he added quietly. ‘There is somebody I must take urgent counsel with. But I would speak with you again later this day, should your duties as king permit.’ 

‘Of course,’ nodded Thorin, feeling his chest tighten anxiously at the sudden shift in the elven lord’s demeanor. ‘You know well enough where to find me,’ he added quietly. ‘Besides, while I am king by blood and by right, we have not held any ceremonies yet; nor have I been officially crowned. It did not seem right to do so before… until Ithilrian wakes up. Until she could be crowned at my side.’ 

‘I see.’ Celeborn dipped his head slightly. ‘Then I shall bid you farewell, son of Thrain; until we meet again.’ 

‘Farewell,’ echoed Thorin, watching the pale form of the Lord of Lothlórien retreating back into the mountain, as silent as a summer breeze, before lowering his head slowly into his hands. A low, choking sigh shuddered through him. _Mahal’s blood,_ he thought bitterly. _What in Durin’s name just happened?_ He groaned, dragging his hands away from his face, steeling himself to return to the main hall to face the duties awaiting him. _It will not be long now,_ he told himself sternly. _Stay strong: just as she would do, if our situations were reversed. Soon she will be awake; and the memory of this past month alone will fade. Just like a bad dream._

~

The remainder of the day dragged on. Thorin found himself in meetings for much of the morning, before heading to the lower levels to supervise some of the building work, as well as consulting with Dwalin and Dain about the guard rotation schedules. The dwarves were well used to being on their guard against the roaming orc-packs that habitually prowled the lowlands; and while it was unlikely any small force would be foolish enough to attack the Lonely Mountain, nobody wanted to take any chances. 

Dusk was falling by the time Thorin was able to get away. He lingered for a moment on the threshold of his kingdom, turning his eyes skyward. The sun shone like a ruby dipped in molten gold, its westering rays painting the mountain slopes a deep, blushing rose. The shadows were lengthening; and somewhere nearby, a thrush trilled his evening song, heedless of the weights and worries that beset the lonely dwarf king. Thorin smiled faintly, wistfully, before turning on his heel and walking slowly away. He bypassed several groups within the main hall, pointedly ignoring any attempts to catch his eye. _No more,_ he thought tiredly. _I’ve had enough._

His feet took him unerringly towards Ithilrian’s chamber. But when he pushed open the doors, he hesitated. She had a visitor; but not the one he’d expected. 

‘Thranduil,’ he grunted, too exhausted to bother with formalities or titles. 

‘Thorin,’ replied the elf slowly, as though coming back from a dream. ‘You are late.’ 

Thorin scowled. ‘Late?’ he replied. ‘For what?’ He glared as the Elvenking rose to his full imposing height. But the elf did not answer his question. 

‘I will be leaving Erebor shortly,’ he said quietly. ‘I must return to my own kingdom. There is much that needs to be done.’

‘I see.’ Thorin felt anger rising in him once again. Thranduil had not even deigned to turn and look at him as he spoke. His eyes were focused entirely upon the sleeping Ithilrian. 

‘I know what you think,’ Thorin snapped bluntly. He was unable to contain himself any longer, as grief and bitterness rose sickeningly within him. ‘You think this is all my fault. That I am no fair match for her. That you want to take her back to Mirkwood with you.’ He scowled, meeting the elf’s steely gaze with a challenging one of his own. 

‘Perhaps.’ Thranduil exhaled; a long, slow sigh, which sounded far sadder than it should have done. ‘I shall not lie to you,’ he added quietly. ‘When first I saw her, I desired her; and I desired her love. I still do. It would be… something to fill the emptiness.’ He paused, his pale blue eyes clouding over with distant memory. ‘I am well aware that we will never be friends, Thorin Oakenshield,’ he added. ‘You and I have a bitter history. But even I am not fool enough to come between a soul-bond such as you and she possess. It took me long enough to see it; but now my vision has cleared.’ He smiled faintly, his icy gaze seeming to soften fractionally. ‘May you live long in joy together, Thorin Oakenshield,’ he added quietly. ‘It would seem that the Valar have blessed your union. _Namárië.’_ Thranduil stood stiffly, bowing his elegantly crowned head before turning on his heel and striding slowly away. 

‘What the…?’ Thorin muttered to himself. _The world seems to have gone mad this day,_ he though bewilderedly, watching the retreating figure of the Elvenking until he was out of sight. He looked back over towards the bed, where the cold pale figure of Ithilrian still slumbered. A warm blanket had been placed over her, concealing the mess of bandages that still swathed her upper body. _How still she looks,_ he thought uneasily. _How small. How vulnerable._ He shivered. Suddenly, all the guards and locks and doors within Erebor did not seem like nearly enough protection. 

‘Lord Oakenshield.’ 

Thorin started at the sound of another voice, turning swiftly to face the newcomer. The lord Celeborn stood framed in the doorway, a sorrowful smile upon his face. 

‘There is one who desires to speak with you,’ the pale elf said quietly. ‘Alone. I shall be waiting in the hall when you are done.’ The elf stepped back, closing the doors firmly as he did. But before Thorin could even open his mouth to ask what in Durin’s name was going on, the candles flickered. A warm breeze seemed to swirl momentarily around the room, carrying with it the scent of honeysuckle, making the dust motes dance in the shimmering golden light. Thorin blinked. Standing before him, where before there had been nothing but empty space, was a woman. 

_Oh no,_ he thought, swallowing nervously. She was undoubtedly an elf: tall, robed all in snowy white, with long unbound hair that fell across her shoulders in rippling waves of purest gold. She bore no mark of rank; but at the sight of her, Thorin’s stomach dropped like a stone. _This must be her,_ he realized suddenly. _The other one. Ithilrian’s mother._

‘Greetings, Thorin son of Thrain, son of Thrór,’ she said softly; yet quiet as her voice was, it seemed to reverberate around the room like the gentle tolling of brazen bells. ‘My name is Galadriel.’ 

Thorin inclined his head in respect, his heart thrumming wildly. ‘Greetings, Lady of Lórien,’ he replied hoarsely. 

The Lady smiled warmly. ‘I see now why my daughter holds you in such high esteem,’ she said softly, fixing the dwarf king with her bright azure stare. Thorin felt his heart give a great pulse in his chest when he met her eyes, realizing that he was in the presence of a truly ancient and powerful being. 

‘Thank you,’ he murmured in a slightly dazed reply. Her gaze seemed to pierce him through and through, seeing directly into his inner thought without any need for further words. _What is it that you desire?_ she seemed to be asking. _What do you want the most, deep down in your heart of hearts?_

‘Help her,’ he blurted out suddenly, answering her look rather than her words. ‘Please, just… help her come back to me.’ His voice broke on the final syllable, and he drew in a deep, shuddering breath. 

‘That is truly your wish?’ she answered quietly. ‘To save the life of my daughter?’ 

‘It is.’ Thorin nodded, his breathing fast and shallow. 

‘Then what if I told you, Thorin of the Oaken Shield, that the way to help your wife lies not in Erebor; but in the lands far west of here?’ She paused, still smiling faintly, tilting her head slightly to one side as though assessing him. ‘Cold stone does not easily heal the hearts of the Elder Folk,’ she continued. ‘My daughter is a creature of the light, who loves the trees and the fields and the open skies. What if I were to tell you that to recover fully, you must take her away from Erebor?’ 

Thorin swallowed hard. ‘What do you mean?’ he asked. The breath rasped harshly in his throat. ‘Leave the mountain? Is that what I must do?’

Galadriel smiled faintly. ‘Would you do it?’ she asked softly. ‘Answer me truly, son of Durin. Would you give up all that you fought to reclaim? Your lands; your people; your kingdom; your throne? Would you be willing to live the rest of your life in exile, not as a king but simply as Thorin: if it meant saving the life of the woman you love?’ 

‘Yes.’ Thorin answered without hesitation, his heart pounding fiercely within him. ‘We set out to reclaim Erebor, Lady Galadriel. And it has been reclaimed; but perhaps not for me. Ithilrian is bound to me, and I to her. She is my heart, my soul… everything. What good is a mountain of gold and a kingdom to me, if she is not here to share it?’ He shook his head, fresh determination flooding his veins. ‘Wherever she must go, I shall go too. Whatever may be done, I shall do it.’ He clenched his fists tightly, setting his jaw and meeting the Lady of Lórien’s deep blue gaze with fearless determination. ‘Tell me, what must I do?’ he added quietly. Already he was beginning to plan, deciding on what would need to be done before he could depart from Erebor. But the Lady Galadriel simply smiled. 

‘You have already done it,’ she replied gently; and with those words her smile broadened, becoming as warm and bright as the midsummer sun. ‘You pass the test,’ she added quietly. ‘Welcome to the family, _Thorin Doronamath. Savo 'lass a lalaith, na lû e-govaned vîn.’_

With those words she turned towards the still, silent form of Ithilrian, stooping over the bed and placing a gentle kiss on her brow. _‘Lasto beth nîn,’_ she murmured. _‘Tolo dan nan galad.’_ Then, soft as the shadow of a half-formed thought, her figure seemed to waver; before, with a flickering of candlelight, the Lady of Lórien vanished. 

Thorin stood silent for a moment, still as one turned to stone. _It is all too much,_ he thought bewilderdly. _Too much to bear alone._ The weight of the past few days seemed to hang far, far too heavily upon his shoulders.

Wearily he knelt at Ithilrian’s side; and it was as though all the stresses of the day came pouring out of him in a long, low groan of despair that tore from somewhere deep inside his soul. He took her slender hand in his own far larger, calloused fingers, careful not to grip too tightly as hot tears came flooding unchecked down his cheeks, dripping from his beard, onto her pale skin where they glistened like pearls in the golden glow of the candlelight. 

He bent his head, his breath coming in low, hiccupping gulps. So ensconced was he in misery that at first he did not notice when, with a stiff, agonizing slowness, Ithilrian’s fingers began to move. They curled haltingly around the dwarf king’s calloused palm, as gentle as a leaf on the night breeze. At first, Thorin could not believe his eyes, wet and blurred with tears as they were. But as he raised his head, he saw the one thing that he had hoped for; had prayed for, every day since that last fateful battle. Ithilrian’s eyes were open. 

_‘Ghivashel,’_ he choked, the word stumbling in his throat as he leaned over, a desperate, almost disbelieving joy bubbling up within him as the elf’s lips parted, and she tried to speak; but the breath rasped in her throat, and she winced. 

‘Hold on,’ he muttered, casting desperately about, grabbing a canteen of fresh water and knocking the lid off with feverish haste. As carefully as he could, he slid one muscular arm beneath her shoulders, raising her head and allowing a little of the water to trickle between her lips. She swallowed painfully, her eyes flickering shut briefly; only to open again, as clear and pale as a fresh dawn sky, focusing on him with a bright, wondering joy. 

‘Thorin,’ she murmured, the word falling from her lips, barely even audible; but even that soft sound was enough to make the dwarf king’s heart soar. 

‘Ithilrian,’ he replied quietly. His voice was hoarse and shaking, and fresh tears were stinging his eyes even as he looked upon her; but it mattered not. She was awake; and she was alive. He repeated her name again, his low voice seeming to rumble throughout the tiny chamber; but no longer it name a desperate prayer spoken against the darkness. It was a sound of life, of joy, and of hope re-kindled. 

‘Thorin,’ she repeated, as though savoring the taste of his name on her lips. ‘Where am I?’ she added slowly. ‘Am I dead?’ 

‘No,’ he replied, shaking his head, unable to suppress the sob of joy that rose within his chest. ‘No, my love. You are far from it.’ He leaned down to gently kiss her forehead, just as he had seen Galadriel do. ‘You are in Erebor,’ he added gently. ‘You are safe, _ghivashel.’_

‘Ah.’ A soft sigh slipped from her lips as she smiled. ‘That is good to hear, my heart.’ She blinked slowly, staring up at him, her grey eyes filling with a gentle concern. ‘What has happened?’ she asked. ‘Thorin, why are you weeping?’ Slowly she raised a hand, brushing her thumb over the dwarf king’s chiseled cheekbones, wiping away his tears with a sweet, familiar tenderness that made Thorin’s heart swell almost painfully inside him. 

‘You have been sleeping these past thirty days,’ he replied, trying and failing to keep the tremor from his voice. ‘No one could wake you. I have feared for your life ever since…’ He broke off, shaking his head. ‘I missed you, _kurdûnuh,’_ he added quietly. ‘I have missed you so much.’ 

_‘Ánin apsenë,’_ she replied. ‘I am sorry I slept so long. I was… lost. Drifting, somewhere in the beyond.’ She winced slightly at the memory. ‘It was cold,’ she added falteringly. ‘Dark. Lonely. I did not recognize the stars.’ She shivered. 

‘It’s all right,’ said Thorin quickly. ‘It’s over now. You’re back.’ He held her still upon one arm, her head resting against his bicep; and as joy rushed over him a great, warm wave, so too did relief. He could no longer hold himself back. Carefully he lowered his head, brushing his nose against hers in a lingering, gentle caress; before dipping down to meet her lips in a soft, tentative kiss. So light, so fleeting was the touch that for one brief moment, he wondered if he held only the shadow of a thought in his arms, instead of a living, breathing woman; but as he pulled his head back and gazed into her starlight eyes, and saw his own wonderment and joy reflected there, he knew in his heart that this was no dream. It was real.

‘Thorin,’ she whispered, soft as the drifting clouds over a summer sky. ‘Come to me, my love.’ 

Thorin smiled warmly. ‘At your service, my lady,’ he murmured in reply, bending his head once more. This time he did not hold back, taking her mouth in a fiercely passionate kiss, closing his eyes and reveling in the press of her lips against his, the gentle curl of her tongue, her intoxicating sweetness like the finest of honeyed wines. 

‘I love you,’ he murmured softly after they pulled away. _‘Labathmiastî, lanselê.’_ He grinned down at her, unable to keep the joy off his face. ‘Your father is here,’ he added. ‘Along with a party of elves from Lórien. They’ll probably want to know that you’re awake.’ 

‘My father is here?’ she repeated, her eyes widening in surprise. ‘Truly? Thorin, _ada_ never travels outside the safety of the Golden Wood. Are you certain it was him?’ 

‘I am,’ Thorin replied with a rueful smile. ‘The way he yelled at me for almost getting you killed was a bit of a giveaway,’ he added dryly. 

‘Hmpf.’ Ithilrian wrinkled her nose worriedly. ‘Oh dear. I hope he wasn’t too… um, well… I’m afraid _ada_ can be a little… impolite, when he’s upset.’ she broke off, her expression creasing in bewilderment as Thorin loosed a long, low laugh. ‘What is it?’ she added. ‘What is so funny?’ 

‘Nothing,’ chuckled Thorin, lowering his head to nuzzle her with gentle affection. ‘I will tell you all later, _ghivashel._ But for now, let us find you some clothes. You cannot go wandering Erebor in naught but your bandages.’ He glanced down, carefully removing his arm to lower her back on the bed once more. The blanket had slipped away, revealing the mass of tightly-wound linen that still bound her upper torso. ‘How are you feeling?’ he added carefully. ‘Can you walk, do you think?’ 

‘I do not know.’ Ithilrian laid a slender hand over her ribs, only to wince and withdraw it. ‘Perhaps slowly, with a little help,’ she added. ‘Come, let us find out.’ 

‘Wait a moment.’ Thorin turned towards a heavy silver-wrought trunk that had been deposited in a corner of the room by the delegation of Lórien elves. ‘Unless I am much mistaken, these are yours,’ he added triumphantly. The trunk was filled with folded piles of gleaming fabric, nearly all in muted greys, greens, and silvers. He grabbed one at random, holding it high and allowing the glistening silk to unfold. It was a dress, he quickly realized. ‘Will this one do?’ he asked, handing it over. 

Wincing, she pulled herself into a sitting position, inspecting the garment carefully. ‘It will,’ she said, after a moment’s hesitation. ‘But…’ she trailed off, raising an arm and grimacing once again in pain. ‘I shall need your help, _a’maelamin,’_ she added quietly. ‘I am not yet fully healed. I can still hear the creak of my broken bones.’ 

‘What?’ Thorin was back at her side in an instant, his eyes wide with worry. ‘Ithilrian, lie still. I beg of you, do not move anything that may hinder your recovery.’ 

‘It is all right, my heart.’ Ithilrian was swift to reassure him, cupping his cheek with one careful hand. ‘I am mending well. But nevertheless, I must be careful. A short walk will do me no harm, I believe; but I will require you help for some little time.’ 

‘Very well.’ Thorin scowled, looking her over carefully. ‘As long as you are certain.’ 

‘I am.’ Ithilrian smiled fondly at her concerned dwarf, feeling a slow warmth blooming within her. There was still lingering bitter pain in her chest, where her ribs were still not fully healed; and without even looking, she knew that for some time her entire upper torso would be a network of scars. But for now, all was well concealed by the bandages. She smiled, gathering up the gown that Thorin had picked out. 

‘Help me?’ she asked quietly, reaching towards him. Thorin nodded, his blue eyes intensely focused, his large hands astonishingly gentle as he helped her to dress with a patient tenderness that nearly brought tears to her eyes. His rough fingers carefully guided her arms into the sleeves, before smoothing down the bodice, making sure she put as little strain as possible on her injuries. 

‘There,’ he said eventually, his voice a low rumble of satisfaction when they were done. Ithilrian nodded in agreement. The dress was floor-length, made from pale grey silk laced with silver thread. It had a wide, scoop neck that sat just off her shoulders, set with small pale stones that glimmered faintly in the light.

‘You’re beautiful,’ said Thorin softly. His voice was low, barely audible even to Ithilrian’s ears. He gazed at her in open admiration, one hand rising to lift a tendril of hair away from her face, before returning to trace the line of her fragile cheekbone. ‘My twilight star,’ he added slowly, his voice hoarse with emotion. ‘My silver lady of Lórien.’ His voice trembled slightly. ‘Will you… stay with me?’ he added, unable to hide the trepidation his words held. _‘Sanghivashâ:_ my perfect treasure. Are you willing to stay… to be known as Ithilrian of Erebor, instead of Lórien?’ He swallowed nervously. ‘I know it is much to ask, _ghivashel._ If you do not wish to give up your home, I shall understand…’ 

‘Thorin,’ whispered Ithilrian in gentle reply, cutting his stumbling words short. ‘My dearest one. Did you think for one moment that I would leave? That I would return to my woods without you at my side?’ She smiled; and to Thorin, the sight was more beautiful than the rising of the sun; than an entire mountain of gold; than the glimmer of moonlight on a snow-capped mountain peak. ‘This mountain is where you belong,’ she added gently. ‘And here is where I belong, too: at your side.’ She leaned forwards, kissing him gently, feeling the relief pouring from him in a great warm wave. ‘Although in time, I would love to show you Lothlórien,’ she added, almost bashfully. ‘Perhaps we could arrange a visit, after things have settled down. There is much I would take joy in showing you.’ 

‘Of course.’ Thorin could not prevent a delighted grin spreading over his face. ‘I would enjoy seeing the place where you grew up; the lands that made you what you are today. Although,’ he added slowly, ‘I do not think your father would be all too pleased. He is not exactly over-fond of me, Ithilrian.’ 

‘Do not worry about him,’ replied Ithilrian fondly. ‘He will come around, in time.’ A sudden flicker of mischief passed over her face. ‘Is King Thranduil still in Erebor?’ she added, in a tone that could almost be mistaken for casual, had it not been for the glint in her eye. 

‘He is,’ replied Thorin with some bewilderment. ‘He was here some minutes ago, in fact. He told me that he would shortly be returning to Mirkwood; but I do not believe he has left yet.’ He shook his head, pressing a bemused kiss to his grinning wife’s forehead. ‘Ithilrian, what are you not telling me?’ he added carefully. 

The elf’s smile widened. ‘If you think my father dislikes you, just wait until he meets Thranduil again,’ she said, shaking her head and laughing softly. ‘Those two snap at one another like a pair of cats. Come, Thorin. This you do not want to miss.’ 

‘If you say so, _ghivashel.’_ Thorin chuckled. He reached out with both hands, allowing the slender elf to put all her weight upon him, lifting her carefully upright. The long dress pooled around her bare feet, shimmering like the light on a rippling pool as she moved, taking a single tentative step. The clinging silken bodice entirely hid the bandages that swathed her upper body. The only sign of her injuries was the faint grimace of pain that passed across her face as she stood. 

‘Put your weight on me,’ Thorin offered, raising his arm to place it around her slender waist. She leaned in to him gratefully. 

‘Thank you,’ she murmured as he took her weight. ‘I fear it will be slow going for a little while, Thorin,’ she added ruefully. ‘Until I regain my strength once more.’ 

‘Don’t worry.’ Thorin smiled to himself, before pausing in sudden concern. ‘Ithilrian, do you need some food?’ he added urgently. ‘You’ve not had a bite to eat or drink since before the battle. That’s almost an entire month.’ 

Ithilrian smiled faintly. ‘So that is why my stomach is making such unholy noises.’ She glanced fondly down at the dwarf beside her. ‘Do not fear,’ she added softly. ‘Some food and drink would be most welcome. But I am not about to drop down in a dead faint from the lack of it. We elves are different to mortal folk, remember.’ 

Thorin squared his shoulders resolutely. ‘Very well,’ he said reluctantly. ‘Let us go down. But once we reach the hall, I shall give the orders. Food will be brought to us wherever you wish.’ He smiled fondly. ‘Fili and Kili will be overjoyed that you’re awake,’ he added quietly. ‘They’ve been so worried for you, Ithilrian. We all have.’ 

‘I know.’ The tall elf smiled, leaning tentatively down to place a loving kiss on the top of her dwarf’s head, wincing as she straightened back up. ‘Come,’ she added, squeezing Thorin’s shoulder lightly, trying to dispel the concern she saw still flickering in the dwarf’s blue eyes. She smiled warmly. ‘It is time, Thorin. Let us go down; and you can show me your kingdom.’ 

‘Our kingdom, Ithilrian,’ he corrected gently. ‘Our kingdom. Our people.’ He smiled warmly. ‘Our home.’ 

~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translation Notes: 
> 
>  
> 
> Sindarin: 
> 
> Iston i nîf gîn, henig. = I know your face, child.  
> Av-'osto = Don't be afraid  
> Odulen an edraith angina = I'm here to save you  
> Namárië = Farewell  
> Doronamath = Oakenshield  
> Savo 'lass a lalaith, na lû e-govaned vîn. = have joy and laughter, until we next meet.  
> Lasto beth nîn, tolo dan nan galad. = hear my voice, come back to the light.  
> Ánin apsenë = forgive me.  
> Ada = father  
> A’maelamin = my beloved.
> 
>  
> 
> Khuzdul: 
> 
> Madtubirzûl = golden heart  
> Ghivashel = treasure of treasures  
> Kurdûnuh = my heart  
> Labathmiastî, lanselê = I adore you, my love of loves  
> Sanghivashâ = my perfect treasure.


	48. Reunions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Ithilrian is reunited with her friends after her long sleep; and a new problem arises.

It was with no small amount of trepidation that Ithilrian stepped out of the candlelit sickchamber. Her heart was pounding nervously; and while she was careful to keep her anxiety hidden from Thorin, she was infinitely grateful for the dwarf’s sturdy presence at her side. She leaned into his broadly muscled shoulder, taking comfort in the weight and solidity of his arm around her waist. 

Every step they took was painfully slow: far slower than Ithilrian had hoped. But she could still feel the jagged rasping of her fractured ribs every time she breathed in, causing shivers of pain to ripple unpleasantly through her. But she did not complain. She knew she had been lucky. She was alive. 

_By rights I should be dead,_ she thought, gritting her teeth and taking step after tentative step. _But by the grace of the Valar and the skills of Mithrandir, I am still here; and Thorin is too._ She smiled fondly, glancing down at the dwarf at her side. Thorin’s gaze was downturned, so focused was he upon guiding her faltering feet; but even after so much time spent at his side, still she was forced to catch her breath at the sight of him in the flickering torchlight. The warm, shimmering light played over the stern, sharp jut of his nose and cheekbones; over the gentle, familiar curve of his mouth; over the silken darkness of his raven hair. _He is so beautiful,_ she thought, feeling warmth and affection swell within her. _Too beautiful for words to fully tell._

But it was with some consternation that Ithilrian noticed that somehow, there appeared to be more threads of gleaming silver woven through Thorin’s mane of hair than before. A sudden surge of panic bloomed within her. _I didn’t sleep for that long, did I?_ She thought nervously. _Thirty days, Thorin said: near a month. Not a year; not two, or ten._ She swallowed carefully, ignoring a stab of pain from her ribs, trying to reassure herself. _We still have time,_ she told herself sternly. _Thorin yet has many long years ahead of him: years in which we may be together._

‘This is the third tier of the city,’ Thorin’s voice rumbled beside her. ‘I’ve had the reconstruction crews working hard to stabilize this area, as well as the levels below. Luckily for us, Smaug seemed to have spent most of his time in the lower halls, in and around the treasury.’ 

‘Indeed?’ Ithilrian nodded in careful reply, forcing her own worry to the back of her mind for now. ‘So that is where the majority of the damage lies?’ 

‘It is,’ nodded Thorin decisively. ‘As soon as I could, I sent teams to scout out as much of the upper city as possible. After all, we currently have dwarves, elves, and men to house within Erebor; and I have had word that caravans of dwarves from Ered Luin and the Blue Mountains are on their way here even now.’ He glanced up at Ithilrian, his expression determined. ‘I will not have it said that my halls are unsafe to tread,’ he added grimly. ‘Our first priority must be to repair what was damaged, before we begin to think about building anything new.’

‘I agree,’ nodded Ithilrian. ‘So what lies in these upper halls, then?’ 

‘The living quarters,’ replied Thorin, pausing at the top of a steep flight of stairs. ‘The indoor marketplaces as well; or at least, what used to be the inner markets. With time, I hope we can restore much of what was lost.’ 

‘Indeed.’ Ithilrian glanced around as they began to descend the narrow stairs. ‘Where are you taking me?’ she added curiously. ‘I do not believe I have walked this region of Erebor before.’ 

‘You haven’t,’ confirmed Thorin with a nod. ‘But then, you’ve barely had a chance to see a fraction of the city before now.’ He smiled warmly. ‘And as to where we are going, you shall soon see for yourself.’ 

Ithilrian smiled faintly. ‘Very well, keep your secrets,’ she replied, arching a quizzical eyebrow. ‘For now, at least.’ 

Thorin chuckled happily; and the low, rumbling sound sent a tendril of warmth curling around Ithilrian’s heart. He sounded truly content, she realized. Finally, all that he had striven for; all that he had longed for, during the bitter years of his exile: it had finally come to pass. He was home. 

‘In here,’ he said quietly, gesturing towards a low arched doorway. ‘There are a couple of people who have been looking forward to seeing you awake once more,’ he added, leaning forwards to push the doors wide. 

_‘Auntie Ithil!’_

An enthusiastic yelp came from the far side of the hall. A short, blond-haired blur came hurtling forwards as Fili ran at full tilt across the room towards them, only just managing to skid to a halt in front of Ithilrian. ‘You’re awake!’ he cried joyfully. ‘You’re alive! Thank Mahal, we were so worried!’ He reached up towards her with both arms. Ithilrian laughed aloud, lowering herself to meet the young prince’s eager embrace. He wrapped both arms gingerly around her, ignoring Thorin’s rumble of protest, careful not to squeeze her injured ribs. 

‘Do not be afraid,’ she murmured softly, when the young prince refused to release his hold, and instead buried his head more deeply into her unbound mass of silvery hair. ‘I am all right, dear Fili. I am mending.’ She pulled her head back, looking deep into his eyes, assessing him carefully. ‘You are well?’ she added questioningly. ‘I know nothing of what happened in the battle after I was struck. Are you wounded at all?’ 

‘Nope,’ replied the golden dwarf proudly, stepping back and beaming. ‘Barely even a scratch. I’m fine, really I am. And Kili’s all right too; although his leg is still a bit wobbly.’ He glanced over his shoulder as, right on cue, another delighted yelp came from the end of the hall, and Kili came hobbling towards them as fast as his splinted leg and crutches would permit. 

‘Auntie!’ he bellowed, waving one crutch enthusiastically in greeting, and almost toppling over. ‘Uncle, why didn’t you tell us that she was awake?’ 

‘Because she has only just woken up, that’s why,’ replied Thorin, his voice low and gruff; but he was unable to conceal the smile spreading over his bearded cheeks. ‘Boys, be gentle with her,’ he added, one hand still resting protectively on her hip. ‘She’s still injured.’ 

‘We will!’ grinned Kili, having finally managed to cross the hall. ‘Don’t you worry.’ He beamed up at Ithilrian, balancing precariously on his crutches. ‘I can’t really hug you properly, can I?’ he added. ‘Not like this; and not with your ribs all bandaged. I’d probably squeeze you too tight, like before.’ 

Ithilrian smiled gently. ‘Then perhaps this will suffice, for now.’ She lowered her head to butt it carefully against the Kili’s forehead, feeling delighted warmth surge within her as the young prince laughed and returned the gesture. 

‘Are you all right?’ he added more seriously, once he had pulled away. ‘You still look all pale and worn out, despite the amount of sleep you’ve had.’ 

‘I am fine.’ Ithilrian nodded reassuringly. ‘But my ribs are still somewhat delicate. My bones have yet to fully heal; and they are causing me some… discomfort.’ 

‘D’you need a healer?’ Fili was on his feet once more. ‘There’s a wood elf that’s been looking after you. I’ll fetch her!’ In a flash, he was off. Ithilrian shook her head in bewilderment. 

‘Am I just getting older, or are young dwarves getting faster?’ she murmured, glancing fondly at Thorin, who simply shook his head and smiled. She raised her eyes at the cacophony of voices that rose just beyond the door that Fili had exited. She barely had time to take another breath before, all at once, the rest of the former Company spilled into the hall. There was Ori, his young face beaming with delight, still wearing his knitted mittens; and there was old Balin, his kind eyes twinkling, his snowy hair and beard gleaming whiter than ever. Dwalin was there too, as heavyset as always, with an enormous double-bladed axe strapped firmly over one shoulder. All of the dwarves were there; even Bilbo, who was hovering to one side, standing on one foot slightly awkwardly, but looking just as happy as the rest. 

‘Miss Ithilrian!’ Dori cooed delightedly. ‘It’s so good to see you on your feet once more! You had us all worried, you know.’ 

‘Yeah,’ added Nori, elbowing his fussy older brother out of the way. ‘Don’t ever do something like that again, y’hear?’ 

‘Y’mean, don’t go up against another giant orc, armed with an iron flail and a death wish?’ interrupted Bofur, grinning. ‘Yeah, I think she’s got that one covered.’ He glanced over his shoulder. More people were entering behind them; mostly dwarves, but with a scattering of elves and men. Excited whispers ran thought the hall.

_The King’s lady!_ most of them seemed to be saying. _She’s awake! She’s alive!_ Many eyes were turning towards her, Ithilrian realized. _What has happened?_ She wondered. _What has been going on while I’ve been asleep?_ Her sharp ears picked up the sound of whispers spreading beyond the hall, rumor running like wildfire though Erebor’s corridors.

‘Thorin,’ she murmured softly. ‘It seems that half the mountain is talking about me. Or rather, about us. Why do I feel like there is much you have not yet told me?’ 

‘Ah.’ Thorin sighed. ‘Yes. Well, it was Dain’s idea, you see…’ he broke off, glancing up as another pair of familiar figures entered. ‘I shall tell you all about it in a moment,’ he added hastily, as the tall, imposing figure of Lord Celeborn swept towards them, shadowed by the sylvan healer Líenna. Thorin stepped to one side, relinquishing his hold on her waist, and allowing Ithilrian to step carefully forwards to greet her father. 

_‘Ada,’_ she said softly, feeling delight blossoming in her chest as the sight of him. Tall as she was, Ithilrian still had to look up to meet her father’s stern grey gaze. ‘It has been too long,’ she added quietly. 

‘Indeed.’ Celeborn stepped closer, his expression impassive. For one moment, Ithilrian hesitated, doubt beginning to gnaw at her insides, uncertain as to precisely how cross her father might be, after her long absence from home. But after a brief, wordless silence that lasted no longer than a heartbeat, Celeborn smiled. It was a slow, gradual smile, which began deep in his sea-grey eyes, before spreading warmly over the rest of his face. ‘Welcome back to the world, my daughter,’ he said quietly; and low though his voice was, still it seemed to shake with emotion as he laid a single, slender hand upon her shoulder. ‘Ithilrian. How we have missed you.’ 

‘I’m sorry,’ whispered Ithilrian, her throat suddenly too tight for words. She drew in a deep, shuddering breath, ignoring a stab of pain from her wounded ribs, as joy and guilt mingled to make bitter tears sting her eyes. ‘Forgive me, _ada,’_ she added, her voice wavering. ‘I should have sent you word long before now. I should never have run away all those years ago. I should have…’ 

‘Peace, my child,’ Celeborn replied gently. ‘Do not trouble your heart with deeds long since passed. I understand.’ He bent to lay a single kiss on her brow, his eyes warm with affection. ‘I will always be here for you,’ he added quietly. ‘Remember that, next time. You will never be truly alone.’ 

‘I know.’ Ithilrian smiled, despite the tears that glittered in her eyes, threatening to fall. ‘I missed you, father.’ 

‘And I you.’ Celeborn squeezed her shoulder lightly before releasing it once more. ‘Ah, Ithilrian, you have caused your mother and I no end of headaches, even in your absence,’ he added softly, shaking his silver head ruefully. ‘You must be more careful. More rides upon your actions than you know. Your choices in these coming days will rule the fate of many.’ 

‘What do you mean?’ asked Ithilrian quietly. ‘Is it… do you mean…?’ she glanced back at Thorin, who was hovering slightly awkwardly behind her, trying hard not to scowl. 

‘Among other things, yes,’ replied Celeborn. ‘We have much to discuss ere I depart.’ He smiled faintly. ‘But that conversation should perhaps wait,’ he added. ‘For now, breathe the free air again. Take joy in the life you have regained.’ He half-turned, indicating the waiting healer with a dip of his head. ‘Pay close attention to what this young elf tells you,’ he added, his voice becoming stern once more. ‘She has been good enough to inform me about the severity of your injuries; and I am _not_ happy with what I have heard.’ 

‘Oh dear.’ Ithilrian smiled ruefully. ‘I will be fine. You are worrying again, _ada.’_

‘Of course I am,’ replied Celeborn, his tone softening slightly. ‘I always will. Such is the fate of any parent who loves their child.’ He shook his head, taking a step back and allowing the sylvan healer to come forwards, utterly ignoring the whispers that were still scurrying around the hall. 

‘My lady,’ said the sylvan healer, dipping her head respectfully before stepping closer. ‘My name is Líenna. I was the one who treated your wounds when you were first brought to us.’ 

_‘Mae g’ovannen,’_ replied Ithilrian warmly. ‘In that case, I am deeply in your debt, my friend.’ 

The healer raised her eyebrows. ‘My thanks; but if you keep putting so much strain on those injuries, then you will have precious little time to repay that debt,’ she replied drily. ‘It is my professional advice that you return to your bed at once, my lady. You need rest.’ 

Ithilrian wrinkled her nose disappointedly, her smile faltering. ‘I have lain abed these past thirty days,’ she replied. ‘I have no wish to go back so soon.’ 

‘Ithilrian,’ rumbled Thorin anxiously. ‘Please, _kurdûnuh._ Do as the healer says. Do not cause yourself any further damage.’ 

‘For once, your dwarf and I are in agreement,’ added Celeborn, his voice stern yet still with a faint smile. ‘You learned a healer’s trade at Lord Elrond’s side many years ago, did you not? Then surely you know well enough that Líenna is right.’ 

Ithilrian hesitated, glancing over Líenna’s shoulder. ‘Unfortunately, it seems your advice will have to wait, whether I wish it or no,’ she said quietly. ‘It appears we have company.’ A mixed delegation of dwarves had pushed to the fore, all heavily robed and bearded, wearing varying expressions of polite determination. 

Thorin was at her side in an instant, offering his shoulder as support once again, drawing himself up regally before eyeing the approaching dwarves. 

‘Am I addressing Thorin, son of Thrain, newly King Under the Mountain?’ the lead dwarf asked. His hair and beard were pale grey and intricately braided, and he spoke with an odd, slightly stuffy pomposity that made Ithilrian want to giggle. 

‘You are,’ replied Thorin, inclining his head fractionally before holding it high once more. His sapphire eyes glittered in the light as he cast a stern gaze over the small assembly. ‘Who are you, and what is your purpose here?’ 

The dwarf bowed low. ‘I am Gírdír, son of Gírdwyn. Duly appointed ambassador from Mount Dolmed and the Kingdom of Nogrod,’ he replied. ‘We heard tell that the great realm of Erebor had been reclaimed; and have come to offer our fealty, and respect, to the King of the Longbeard clan.’ He bowed again, almost fawningly. Thorin’s scowl deepened. ‘We heard strange tidings on our journey here,’ the dwarf added, when Thorin seemed disinclined to break the gathering silence. He shot a nervous glance at Ithilrian before continuing. ‘We heard tell that the King had not yet been crowned; but was already betrothed, despite having received no official messages. We also heard that his betrothal was… to a female… elf. But that is, of course, ridiculous…?’ 

The dwarf’s voice trailed off. He seemed almost to wilt beneath the growing fury of Thorin’s sapphire stare. 

‘Ridiculous?’ Thorin echoed. His voice had sunk to a low, dangerous growl. ‘I advise you to swiftly change both your tone and your attitude, Gírdír son of Gírdwyn. That is, so long as you wish to remain within my kingdom.’ Softly spoken though his words were, still they seemed to echo around the cavern like the ominous rumbling of distant thunder. His arm tightened around Ithilrian’s waist. 

‘Forgive me, my Lord Oakenshield. I meant no offence; but those are simply the rumors we have heard,’ the grey-haired dwarf muttered. 

Thorin smiled grimly. ‘In that case, allow me to tell you plainly. The elf you see before you is a scion of an ancient, noble house. Her name is Ithilrian; and she is known as the Silver Lady and the Twilight Star; youngest and fairest daughter of the king and queen of Lothlórien. She is both princess and heir in her own right; and soon, I intend to make her my queen.’ His eyes flashed challengingly. ‘Any questions?’ 

The dwarf swallowed uncomfortably, darting another tentative glance up at Ithilrian. He seemed almost afraid to look at her directly, she noticed. She kept her face perfectly impassive, showing no outer sign of the anxiety that rose swiftly into her throat. _Please, do not say anything stupid,_ she inwardly begged the dwarven ambassador. _I knew that problems would arise because of this betrothal; but for the love of Varda, do not have the poor judgment to insult me while my father is still here._

‘Gentlemen.’ The smooth, fatherly voice of Balin filled the growing awkward silence. ‘I trust that any issues we face here can be resolved diplomatically, hmm?’ He shot a warning glance at Thorin, whose jaw was clenching angrily. ‘We anticipated that this might prove to be a… contentious decision. I would suggest that we move this discussion to one of the Council Chambers, where we can talk the matter over properly.’ He smiled encouragingly at the ambassadorial party, before gesturing carefully towards the exit. ‘After all, as I’m sure you are well aware, a terrible battle was fought here not so long ago. Many of our people are still recovering from the grievous wounds inflicted; and her Ladyship is no exception. Our future queen is currently in somewhat… fragile health.’ He inclined his head respectfully towards Ithilrian as he spoke. ‘Besides, I’m sure that gentlemen of the world such as yourselves will understand that the last thing any lady wants to face is questions about her betrothal,’ he added. ‘Especially in her current state.’ 

He met Ithilrian’s steady gaze, raising one eyebrow fractionally. For a moment, she caught the faintest flicker of a wink in the old dwarf’s twinkling eyes, and immediately understood. _Let me handle this,_ he was saying. _Let me deal with them; and with Thorin too._

‘My thanks for your concern, Master Balin,’ she replied formally, dipping her head in a graceful half-bow. ‘You are, as usual, entirely correct.’ She turned back to Thorin, allowing a gentle smile to creep over her face as she met his gaze. ‘You have your wish,’ she said gently. ‘I shall return to my sickbed and rest, my lord Thorin. If you have need of me, call. I shall hear.’ 

‘Very well,’ he replied, seeming suddenly reluctant for her to leave his side. ‘I’ll have Dwalin escort you to your room.’ He ground his teeth audibly, shooting an irritated look at the delegation from Nodgrod. ‘I will come to see you soon,’ he added. ‘I promise.’ 

‘I do not doubt you,’ Ithilrian replied softly. ‘I never have.’ She bent down slowly, despite the pain in her ribs, dropping a careful kiss on the top of the dwarf king’s head, squeezing his arm lightly before stepping away. ‘Until later, _ada?’_ she added, glancing up at her father. 

‘Indeed,’ replied Celeborn quietly. He was staring coldly at the dwarven ambassador. ‘I shall come to you tomorrow, Ithilrian. Go now and rest. Sleep well; but do not sleep overlong this time.’ 

Ithilrian nodded, turning towards the door where the hulking figure of Dwalin was waiting. He stepped protectively in front of her almost immediately, eyeing the ambassador with open dislike. 

‘Come along lass,’ he said quietly. ‘Time we were moving, aye?’ 

‘Indeed.’ Ithilrian turned, placing one hand upon the tough dwarf’s sturdy shoulder, allowing him to take a little of her weight. ‘I fear I am slow, tiresome company today,’ she added, after they left the hall. 

‘No matter,’ grunted the warrior dwarf. ‘The way I see it, anything’s better than listening to those bloody stuffed-beards whining on about betrothals and tradition and whatnot. Take my word for it: heads will roll when Thorin’s patience finally snaps.’ 

Ithilrian smiled grimy. ‘I almost wish you were not speaking metaphorically, _mellon nîn._ Thorin is not an overly patient dwarf; but I suppose it would be a poor start to his reign if he began beheading anyone who questioned our union. There would be precious few dwarves left for him to rule over; and I hear your populations are low enough already.’ 

Dwalin loosed a short bark of laughter as they entered the sickchamber. ‘You’re right there.’ He lowered her carefully back onto the bed, his large tattooed hands surprisingly gentle around her wounded ribcage. ‘You’re all right?’ he added gruffly. ‘D’ye need anything?’ 

Ithilrian laid a hand over her chest and winced. ‘A pain draft would not go amiss,’ she muttered. ‘Remind me to ask the sylvan healer for ingredients next time. If I can make my own as and when I need them, I shall be less of a bother to everyone.’ 

‘Right.’ Dwalin stood up, his habitual scowl firmly in place. ‘I’ll speak to somebody about sending you up some food as well, or Thorin will have my hide after he’s done yelling at the ambassadors.’ He nodded decisively. ‘Back in a tick, lass. You get some more rest now. You look like y’need it.’ 

~ 

Thorin stalked angrily though Erebor’s winding passageways, following Balin’s lead with bad grace. They were headed to the least damaged of the old Council Chambers, where long ago his grandfather had held monthly meetings with his advisors. As a young prince, Thorin had attended several times, and found those meetings to be both dull and frustrating in equal measure. Now, it would appear, he would have to endure another: the first of many.

‘Here we are,’ said Balin with forced joviality, pushing open a tall set of carven doors and leading them inside. Behind him, the delegation of ambassadors filed in, each taking one of the low wooden chairs that surrounded the central table. Thorin took up his position at the head of the assembly, nodding regally as Balin sat down beside him. 

‘Let us begin,’ he said, forcing his voice to remain neutral for the time being. ‘I believe some introductions are in order.’ 

One by one, the foreign dwarves stood up and bowed formally, introducing themselves by name. Gírdír and his companion Brâzak were representing the clans of Firebeard and Broadbeam from Mount Dolmed. Besides them, there were several other dwarves from the Orocarni Mountains in the far East, representing the remaining clans of Ironfists, Stiffbeards, Blacklocks and Stonefoots. All had come to renew their ancient oaths of loyalty to the Longbeard clan: Thorin’s own, the direct descendants of Durin himself. 

_But it seems that purpose has been cast aside for the moment,_ thought Thorin wryly, taking in the various nervous expressions on the faces that confronted him. _It seems that suddenly, my bloody wedding is far more important to them than the oaths or treaties they came to sign._ He felt a familiar curl of anger in the pit of his belly like a single glowing ember, ready to flare into white-hot flame at any given moment. 

‘Well then, gentlemen,’ said Balin convivially, once all introductions had been made. ‘I believe there was something in particular you wished to discuss, hmm?’ 

‘Indeed.’ The Stonefist ambassador stood up. He was tall for a dwarf, with dark hair and beard, and a determined glint in his eye. ‘We have come in order to secure the old alliances, now that the wheel has turned, and Erebor is in the hands of dwarves once more.’ He paused, inclining his head towards Thorin and Balin respectfully. ‘However,’ he continued, ‘it must be said that rumors of the King’s intended marriage have troubled some of our folk.’ 

‘Indeed?’ replied Balin, flashing a cautionary look at Thorin, who chose to simply raise one eyebrow and remain silent for the moment. ‘I had not expected word of this matter to have already spread so far, and so fast,’ he added conversationally. 

‘The ravens are as faithful messengers as they were in the days of old,’ interjected the Blacklock ambassador, whose name was Kâzran. ‘They bring us much news, and upon many different subjects. We have all been delighted to receive such accounts of Erebor flourishing once more. But…’ 

‘But what?’ snapped Thorin, unable to contain his impatience. His experience with dwarven politics made him fully aware that, given the chance, these people would spend a great deal of time skirting the issue they had come to talk about, refusing to make any outright accusations against him; unless he broached the matter first. ‘I have little time to spare; and so I must ask you to speak plainly,’ he added sternly. ‘You would question my choice of queen?’ 

‘We would,’ the dwarf replied, after a moment’s hesitation. ‘Of course, the King’s Right to choose his bride and name the wedding day is already well known to us. That is not in dispute here. But tradition dictates that…’ he hesitated once more, pinioned beneath the full, glowering intensity of the king’s angry stare. 

‘Do go on,’ Thorin growled dangerously. ‘Tell me; what does _tradition_ dictate that I do?’ Beside him, Balin sighed and put his head in his hands. 

‘It… it says that you should choose your bride from one of the high-born clans: a lady of noble bearing, the scion of an ancient house or bloodline, to further the honor of our peoples,’ replied the dwarf slowly, as though quoting from memory a carefully-remembered piece of lore. 

Thorin smiled grimly. ‘And I have done so,’ he replied quietly. ‘For Ithilrian is as high-born a woman as yet walks this earth; and she has a noble bearing; and is indeed one of the last scions of the most ancient bloodlines of Arda itself, in both Middle Earth and the shores beyond.’

‘Well… yes, but… the point is… that’s not really….’ the Blacklock ambassador stuttered awkwardly, before being interrupted by the dwarf seated to his right.

‘She’s a bloody elf,’ he snapped. ‘That’s what’s the bloody problem here, right enough.’ He narrowed his eyes, matching Thorin stare for stare. He was from the Ironfist clan; and his hair and beard were as grey as the metal of his people’s namesake. 

‘Well observed,’ replied Thorin drily. ‘I see the Ironfists have not lost their legendary powers of deduction.’ He clenched his jaw tightly, feeling the muscle jump and twitch. He knew he was not helping to smooth matters over; but he couldn’t help himself. _They have no right,_ he thought irritably. _No right to come into my lands and try to dictate whom I may or may not marry._

‘I think I see the problem here,’ interrupted Balin smoothly, rising to his feet and spreading his hands in a pacifying gesture; but not before he had kicked Thorin in the shins beneath the table. ‘What we’re dealing with here is a lack of communication, I believe.’ He smiled disarmingly. ‘After all, if we all relied upon naught but rumor and gossip for our information, where would we be?’ 

‘Indeed.’ The Blacklock ambassador had risen to his feet. ‘You see, it is the concern of some – only _some,_ mark you – that while Erebor is safely in dwarven hands once more, just how long shall it remain as such, if the King sees fit to share his throne with an elf?’ He paused, quailing slightly as Thorin turned his furious sapphire gaze onto him; but still somehow managing to continue. ‘This is what our people fear,’ he added cautiously. ‘That no sooner have you reclaimed your kingdom, then you are about to lose it once more; not to a dragon this time, but to the elves.’

A murmur of agreement rippled around the table. Thorin raised his brows questioningly. 

‘That is it?’ he replied quietly. ‘You are all afraid that I will allow my kingdom to fall entirely into the hands of elves? That they have a plan to take Erebor for their own?’ 

‘Simply put, I believe that is the root of it.’ The Stonefist ambassador tried to smile disarmingly. ‘We have all heard the stories coming out of Erebor,’ he added. ‘Tales of great perils faced and danger overcome, with elf and dwarf standing side by side against the rising tide of evil, and falling in love along the way.’ He smiled wryly. ‘There is no denying that many of our folk, the youngsters especially, have become positively smitten by the romance of it all. But my lord Thorin, please try to understand our concerns. Elves were ever tricky to deal with, for they are a fey and willful folk when the mood takes them. They seldom bother with mortal concerns; which is why we find this union such a surprise. What makes you so certain that this entire set-up is not simply a charade on her part? What if she is simply trying to manipulate you into handing over both these lands and your power? Do the elves not have territories enough, that now they seek to take them from us?’ 

A low growl rumbled in Thorin’s throat, and fresh anger swirled like acid in the pit of his belly. _How dare they,_ his inner thought hissed venomously. _To come into my kingdom, and insult my betrothed: my wife, in fact – in such a casual manner? To accuse her of such falsehood?_ His gut clenched as guilt writhed briefly within him, remembering all too well the cruel words he had spoken while in the grip of the dragon sickness; and the spasm of pain that had flashed across Ithilrian’s face when he’d accused her of playing him false. 

‘Your accusations are unfounded,’ he snapped angrily, trying and failing to keep a reign on his gathering temper. ‘My future queen is true as tempered steel. Such deceit is foreign to her very nature; it would disgust her to even think of such a thing.’ He scowled darkly at the Stonefist ambassador, who at least had the good grace to appear embarrassed. ‘She has shown me both great faith, and great courage. Greater even than some of my own kin,’ he added softly, dangerously, as though daring any of them to gainsay his words. ‘She cares for me above all things; as I in turn care for her. She willingly offered her life for mine during our final battle against Azog the Defiler; and it is only thanks to the wizard’s magic that she now lives and breathes at all.’ 

‘I see,’ the dwarf replied carefully. ‘Far be it from any of us to doubt your word. Yet are you certain that the elf has not simply cast a spell upon you; a glamour perhaps, or some form of witchery, to make you believe whatever she wishes?’ 

Thorin positively snarled. ‘Do not dare to pile further slander upon my betrothed,’ he replied dangerously, his hands balling into fists. ‘Not if you wish to keep your beard; or your head.’ 

‘Gentlemen,’ interrupted Balin once again, his voice pained. ‘Please, there is no need for this discussion to become violent. I’m sure we can come to an arrangement that is agreeable to all parties.’ 

‘Hmpf.’ The Ironfist dwarf snorted derisively. ‘How about this: his most gracious bloody majesty comes to his senses, marries one of our daughters, and sires an heir. After that, nobody’ll care too much about his little bit of elvish on the side.’ He grinned unpleasantly. ‘Sounds good, aye? A proper dwarven queen on the throne; and you still get to keep your little elvish _mên caile_ in the bedroom.’ He loosed a raucous guffaw of laughter; which was swiftly stilled as, with a speed that shocked those around him, Thorin crossed the distance in a single furious bound and grasped the dwarf firmly by the throat. 

‘Do not _dare_ to speak those words again,’ he growled, as the dwarf spluttered and choked. He tried to writhe away; but Thorin’s grip was iron. ‘If I hear you insult her once more; just one more time…’ 

‘Thorin, please!’ Balin interrupted, on his feet as well, his voice rising in agitation. ‘Laddie, let the fellow go, he can barely breathe!’ 

Thorin snarled; but loosened his hold. The Ironfist dwarf gasped with relief as Thorin stepped back, his eyes flashing darkly, his patience finally at an end. _To the Void with this,_ his inner thought raged. _To the pits of Mordor with them all._

‘Gentlemen,’ he snarled, lacing the word with as much venom as he could muster. ‘You sit here in _my_ halls, safe and secure in _my_ kingdom, but all you have done so far is insult me; and worse, insult the one I hold in highest regard. So I ask you now to think upon this. When Smaug first came, and Erebor fell: where were you?’ His eyes narrowed, as and ancient and bitter anger rose up sickeningly in his throat. ‘Where were you?’ he repeated, his voice rising to echo powerfully around the chamber. ‘When _my_ people were starving and dying in the wilderness; when our proud race was reduced to naught but beggars on the streets of Men; what help came to Durin’s sons from your clans?’ He paused for breath, his chest heaving with anger, his throat tight with words of bile and bitterness that clamored to be said. The silence that followed hung heavily in the air; and he found that suddenly, none of the dwarves could meet his gaze. ‘Nothing,’ he added forcefully, after a pause of several heartbeats. ‘You did _nothing,_ my lords of Orocarni and Dolmed. And I owe you nothing in return. Think long upon that, before you dare to speak with me again.’ 

In a whirl of robes Thorin turned on his heel and stormed away, slamming the carven stone doors behind him. The blood was pounding furiously in his ears, and an old and powerful anger churned in the pit of his stomach. _Let them stay there,_ he thought bitterly as he strode away. _Let them rot. They can debate amongst themselves until doomsday for all I care: I have heard more than enough for one day._

He swept through Erebor’s bustling corridors, heedless of the folk who scurried hastily out of his way. His unerring feet took him higher, across the arcing walkways and up the steeply sloping steps, towards the place where his solace lay.

He halted for a moment outside the door of Ithilrian’s sickroom, leaning against the wall and trying to regain control of his breathing. It would not do to go storming in, his foul temper still swirling within him like dragonfire. He swallowed hard before entering, closing the door behind him as silently as he could manage.

The elf lay stretched upon the narrow bed. Her eyes were closed once more; and for a sudden, terrible moment, terror gripped him, fearing that she had once more drifted into that long, fearful slumber from which there was no awakening. 

‘Ithilrian?’ he said, trying not to let his fear show in his voice. But he could not help but loose a choked sigh of relief when the elf’s eyes flickered immediately open, and she turned her head to look at him. 

‘Thorin,’ she replied, a slight smile tugging at her lips. ‘I heard your approach from afar, _a’maelamin.’_

‘Sorry,’ muttered Thorin apologetically, trying to slow the frantic thrumming of his heart in the face of her calm grey gaze. ‘I didn’t mean to wake you.’ 

‘You did not.’ Ithilrian pulled herself slowly upright until she was seated on the edge of the bed. ‘I am still learning the rhythms of this place,’ she added quietly. ‘One thing that constantly surprises me is how well sound travels through these great halls of yours.’ She smiled wryly. ‘I thank you for defending my honour,’ she added softly. ‘I do not know the precise term that dwarf used that so angered you; and so I shall not ask. But I fear we cannot simply leave matters unresolved in this manner. Sooner or later, something will have to be done.’ 

‘You heard?’ Thorin gaped for a moment. ‘I should have expected that,’ he added, rolling his eyes, as a little of the tension began to ease from his shoulders. ‘It seems I am still underestimating the reach of elvish hearing.’ He hesitated. ‘Does that mean you heard all of what was said?’ 

‘Yes.’ Ithilrian shook her head. ‘Although you must hope for their sakes that my _ada_ did not hear as well. Peaceable though he may be, he would willingly hew that dwarf’s head from his shoulders for slighting me in such a way.’ 

‘Really?’ Thorin raised an eyebrow in disbelief. ‘Perhaps that is something else your father and I have in common, then.’

‘Indeed.’ Ithilrian smiled faintly; but after a second or two her expression dropped, and she turned away with a weary sigh. ‘Are you truly sure that you wish to go through with this?’ she added; and there was an exhausted tremor in her voice that made Thorin’s heart clench anxiously in his chest. 

‘What do you mean?’ he replied, reaching for her hand. ‘Ithilrian?’ 

The elf hesitated before replying, fixing him with an uncertain, searching gaze. ‘This world is wide, and full of perils unknown and unnumbered,’ she said slowly. ‘You shall find troubles aplenty heaped upon your shoulders before long; and I have no desire to add to them. Thorin, when you said you’d make me your queen…’ she sighed softly. ‘I will not hold you to those words, if fulfilling that promise does you more harm than good. I love you, my heart, and I have no wish to see you suffering. If you believe your people truly will not accept my presence by your side…’ 

‘Stop.’ Thorin interrupted her, his voice rising with fear. ‘Do not speak the words, I beg of you. Please, Ithilrian. I _need_ you at my side. If you leave Erebor, then so shall I.’ 

‘Peace,’ she replied gently, offering him a faint but reassuring smile. ‘I was not speaking of leaving. My place is wherever you might be.’ She leaned forwards slowly, resting her head on his broad shoulder and sighing softly. ‘I simply meant that perhaps you do not have to declare me queen, if it will do more harm than good,’ she whispered. ‘Perhaps I could remain at your side as a… a councilor, or advisor of sorts…’ 

‘Nonsense,’ Thorin replied gruffly, running a single gentle hand through the long fall of her silver hair, its cool silken touch easing his fractured nerves. ‘What a queen you will make,’ he said softly. ‘I can think of no one better suited to the role.’ He leaned down to kiss her gently. ‘Do not think for a moment that you are unworthy of my throne,’ he whispered, his throat tight. ‘Do not believe for a single second that I would have you as anything other than you are. You have strength and courage, tempered with wisdom; and no small measure of kindness. That is a rare and powerful combination in this age. I will have great need of you, Ithilrian. Erebor will have need of you.’ He leaned down to kiss her gently. ‘Besides, many of Dain’s folk already expect you to be crowned as my queen any day now,’ he added. ‘Thanks to my cousin’s cunning ruse. I expect I would be lynch-mobbed if I married anybody else, after all the rumors that have been circulating.’ 

Ithilrian smiled faintly. ‘Ah, so it is Dain Ironfoot I have to thank for the stories I have been overhearing?’ she replied. ‘I did not expect him to be one for subtle planning.’ 

Thorin shrugged. ‘Neither did I. But it seems to have worked. Besides, many of Dain’s people have elected to stay here, to leave their homes in the Iron Hills to help to rebuild and repopulate Erebor. They will be our people, soon.’ He hesitated. ‘That is, if you still wish…. If you are not averse to becoming my queen?’ He did not hide the tremor of anxiety that rippled through him at the words. _What if she doesn’t want to stay with me? __His inner thought whispered. _What if she’s changed her mind; has decided that Erebor is too dark, too dreary; too far away from the wide world that she loves?__

‘May I show you something?’ he asked suddenly, his heart in his mouth, as Ithilrian was about to reply. ‘There is something that I would very much like you to see.’ 

Ithilrian paused, a faint smile returning to her face once more. ‘What is it?’ 

Thorin shook his head. ‘I would sooner show you than tell you,’ he replied carefully. ‘It is a thing that is difficult to fully describe with words alone.’ 

‘I see.’ Ithilrian’s smile widened. ‘And where is it, this indescribable thing that you wish me to see?’ 

‘Upstairs. In Erebor’s upper levels.’ He hesitated. ‘That is, as long as you think you’d be up for another short walk; and if your father would approve of you getting out of bed so soon.’ 

She laughed softly, flashing him a sudden, mischievous smile. ‘I did not get where I am today by obeying my father’s every word,’ she said quietly. ‘And in truth, you have roused my curiosity. Let us go, Thorin. Now, before I am missed; and before _ada_ sends the healers looking for me.’ 

Thorin shook his head, both delighted and exasperated in equal measure as she levered herself upright once more. Her movements were still slow, and every step she took seemed stilted and tentative, as though she were still unsure of her own body at times. But she walked beside him steadily, and her warm, slight weight on his arm was of a great comfort to him after the stresses of the day. He knew even without looking that dusk would have already fallen outside the Lonely Mountain as they made their way gradually up the winding staircases, towards the highest levels of the city. Here and there they passed other folk, mostly Dain’s people, still engaged with the repair work. He nodded regally to them as he passed, noticing with a wry smile that their gazes lingered upon Ithilrian, rather than him. _And well they might stare,_ he thought internally, glancing up at the elf and smiling. She seemed to shimmer faintly at his side, tall and slender as a young sapling, her silver hair gleaming whitely in the torchlight, her footfalls utterly silent upon the stone beside him. 

It was a slow walk, and a laborious one for Ithilrian; but before long they reached the place that Thorin was seeking. He halted outside the doors, suddenly feeling more than a little hesitant. ‘We are here,’ he said slowly. ‘This is the uppermost citadel of Erebor. This is where my family and the high-ranking dwarves once had their quarters.’ 

‘This is where you lived?’ Ithilrian replied quietly, glancing around, a faint smile upon her face. ‘It seems untouched by the dragonfire, _mellon nîn.’_

Thorin nodded. ‘Smaug, that old worm, was far too fat to fit up these narrow staircases,’ he replied with a smirk. ‘Beyond this door lies the _Madtubirzûl,_ the place known as the Golden Heart of the mountain. It is this that I would show you.’ He swallowed, suddenly feeling unreasonably nervous as she turned her strange pale gaze towards him. ‘I hope you like it,’ he added falteringly, unable for the moment to summon any further words, as he reached out with one hand and pushed against the carven doors, allowing them to swing wide. 

He felt, rather than saw, Ithilrian’s gasp. ‘By the Lady Varda,’ she murmured wonderingly, her eyes wide and her lips parted in astonishment. ‘Thorin, this is beautiful.’ 

He nodded, feeling a satisfied warmth beginning to glow within his chest at the sight of her obvious delight. At the far end of the room the balcony doors hung wide, allowing the cool shadows of twilight to stream freely in. The dusklight caught on the gem-studded walls, which glittered and shone in all their opalescent glory, seeming to light the entire chamber with a white, glimmering fire. He moved with her, his arm still gentle around her waist as she stepped forwards, reaching out a hand to trace the carven walls and faceted jewels with a bewildered wonderment that made a sudden surge of love and pride swell fiercely within his chest. 

‘Thorin, what magic is this?’ she murmured. ‘For this is as wondrous a sight as any I’ve seen in five thousand years. To capture the light in such a fashion…’ she shook her head, glancing bewilderedly down at the dwarf beside her. 

‘No magic,’ he replied simply, feeling slightly lightheaded at the strength of her reaction. ‘Simply good dwarven craftsmanship, and an understanding of our tools.’ 

‘I… I know not what to say.’ Ithilrian shook her head. ‘Forgive me, my love. My heart is too full; I am lost for words.’ She looked up, smiling, seeming drawn to the heavy stone doors that yet hung open. ‘This place has a balcony,’ she added quietly. ‘Thorin, I never expected to find such a thing in Erebor. I thought this mountain an impenetrable fortress.’ 

‘It is,’ replied Thorin, his voice a low, comforting rumble. ‘Save for this place, and a few others like it; which are designed to be hidden, and impossible to access from outside.’ He could not prevent a warm, delighted smile from creeping over his face at the sight of Ithilrian’s astonishment. ‘Do you wish to see outside?’ he added. 

‘Very much so,’ she replied; and he chuckled at her eagerness. He walked with her as she stepped tentatively through the open doors, sighing with pleasure and resting her weight on the carved stone rail, gazing out over the lands below. A thick dusting of snow still carpeted the balcony floor; and for a moment Thorin cursed his inattentiveness when he realized Ithilrian’s feet were still bare. But even as he glanced down, and opened his mouth to apologize, he noticed that her slender feet had left no imprint upon the snow; and that she seemed to utterly ignore the chill air all around them, or the coldness of the wind that twined its frost-laced fingers through the unbound length of her silver hair. 

‘This is what you wished to show me?’ she asked him softly, turning to glance down at him. Her eyes were shining brightly; and as the dusk descended, and the sky shaded from palest blue to a deep, inky indigo, she seemed to gleam faintly with her own pale radiance, capturing Thorin’s gaze like a lone star on a clouded night. 

‘It is,’ he replied haltingly. His throat tightened with emotion as he gazed up at her, drawn into the depths of her pale grey gaze. ‘My twilight star,’ he murmured wonderingly, taking her fragile hand in his own scarred, sword-calloused palm and raising it to his lips. ‘Still you take my breath away,’ he added, his voice deepening with emotion as he placed a small, tentative kiss upon her slender fingers. ‘Even after all we have been through, all that we have shared; still I cannot help but be rendered speechless by the mere sight of you.’ He squeezed her hand gently, faint tears pricking his eyes at the sight of her expression. 

‘Thorin,’ she said haltingly. ‘My king.’ Her words came as gasps from her lips, filled with love as, with agonizing slowness, she lowered herself onto one knee before him and dipped her silver head. 

‘Do not you kneel to me,’ he replied hoarsely. ‘This place, these rooms… they are yours. My gift to you; the first of many. Ithilrian: my heart. My friend. My queen.’ The words faltered in his throat as he moved in close, his chest tightening with both joy and apprehension as she met his stare, reaching out tenderly to trace the line of his cheek with a slender finger. ‘Please, stay with me and rule at my side,’ he whispered, as tears dimmed his eyes and he struggled to meet her intense grey gaze. ‘Please, Ithilrian. I cannot do this alone.’ His voice broke on that final word, and a low sob grated harshly in his throat. 

‘Thorin,’ she murmured in soft reply, her voice barely louder than the whispering breezes that swirled around them both, lacing her hair with a flurry of snowflakes that glittered like fresh-hewn diamonds. ‘Do not be afraid, my heart. Now that we are here, I shall not leave you: not unless you command me to go. For I love you, Thorin Oakenshield: more than I love the sight of the sun on the leaves, the sound of the wind among the branches, the song of rain upon the mountainside. Every breath binds me closer to your side; every beat of my heart echoes with the sound of your name. You are life itself to me, _veleth nîn._ Your soul shines more brightly to my eyes than any other on this earth.’ She smiled gently, reassuringly; and to Thorin, it was as beautiful a sight as ever he had seen. 

‘Thank you,’ he murmured, his voice slow and halting. 

Ithilrian nodded, tilting her head down to press her forehead gently against his. ‘Together,’ she reminded him, ‘or not at all.’ 

‘Together,’ he repeated softly, finally allowing himself to push tentatively forwards, capturing her lips in a soft, careful kiss that made his soul ache from the very tenderness of it. Her lips were wet and warm against his mouth, and despite the snow that swirled all around them he felt a slow, steady warmth enfolding him in a velvet embrace. When he finally pulled back to gaze up into her eyes, he was surprised to find them glittering with unshed tears. 

‘Ithilrian?’ he murmured uncertainly, cupping her cheek carefully and gazing deep into her eyes. ‘What is it?’ he asked. But the elf simply shook her head and smiled. 

‘Another choice made,’ she whispered. ‘Another path taken. For me, there is now no going back. No returning to the life I once had.’ 

‘What do you mean?’ asked Thorin. ‘Is that… a bad thing?' 

Ithilrian smiled warmly. ‘No, my heart,’ she replied softly. ‘It is not.’ She chuckled lightly, and shook her head. ‘Mithrandir came to see me just before you appeared,’ she added quietly. ‘Among other things, he bore a message from my mother. She said: it is time. Put aside the wanderer. Become who you were born to be.’ 

‘And who is that?’ asked Thorin quietly, although in his heart he already knew the answer. 

‘A queen,’ she replied; and at those words his heart soared within him. ‘Your queen, Thorin. I shall stand beside you through both joy and sorrow; through times both good and ill, unto my final breath. This I swear.’ 

Thorin nodded, his throat suddenly far too tight to speak. ‘And I you,’ he managed to add, his voice slow and halting. ‘Together, nothing will stand in our path. We will restore Erebor back to its former glory.’ 

‘We shall.’ Ithilrian smiled faintly, her grey eyes becoming serious once more. ‘For I fear that Erebor will have great need of strength in the days to come; and not simply because of what was lost to the dragon.’ She sighed softly. ‘The time of the elves is over,’ she said, her voice dropping sadly. ‘My people are leaving these shores, never to return. And well they might; for in my heart I know we shall yet face far greater perils, and a blacker danger than any we have overcome, before this age of the world is over.’ She squeezed his hands gently, touching her forehead to his for comfort. ‘I do not fear many things, Thorin Oakenshied,’ she added quietly. ‘But when I heard the news Mithrandir brought out of Dol Guldur, I must confess that my blood ran cold with fright. For if our Ancient Enemy should rise in power again, seeking to cover the land with a second darkness, then we shall have precious few allies to call upon when war reaches our kingdom.’ 

Thorin swallowed hard. ‘You truly believe that will come to pass?’ he asked hoarsely. ‘That we will face another bitter struggle, and another war against Sauron during our lifetime?’ 

Ithilrian smiled bleakly. ‘I do,’ she replied. ‘I wish it were not so; but the sleepless malice that glowers in the East is taking shape. We would be fools to ignore it.’ She shook her head ruefully. ‘Which is why tomorrow morning you must go once more to speak with the ambassadors,’ she added. ‘We must secure the old alliances as best we can. My heart tells me we shall have need of them.’ 

Thorin groaned, leaning back and shaking his head as a tendril of remembered anger curled once more around his ribcage. ‘I wish you were not right,’ he muttered. ‘I have no desire to step back into that nest of vipers.’ 

‘Then you shall not do it alone,’ replied Ithilrian, smiling faintly. ‘I shall come with you; and answer any complaints the dwarves have about our marriage myself. Perhaps they will not be quite so eager to insult me by the end of it; and that will be all to the good, if you still desire to gain their allegiance.’ 

Thorin sighed wearily. ‘You make your point well, as usual,’ he replied, placing a gentle kiss on her cheek. ‘See, already you say _we_ and not _you;_ you say _our_ kingdom, not _yours.’_ He could not conceal the smile that spread warmly over his face at the thought. ‘Your mother was right, Ithilrian. You were born for this, in the same way that I was. Together, we shall make sure Erebor prospers; and endures.’ 

‘Together,’ nodded Ithilrian, laughing softly. ‘I like the sound of that, _veleth nîn.’_

‘Good.’ Thorin smiled, cupping her cheek and kissing her once again, savoring the taste of her lips. ‘Then come, _ghivashel._ We will have a long day ahead of us tomorrow; and you should already be resting. No doubt your father will withdraw what little good opinion he has of me, if he discovers how long I’ve kept you out here in the cold.’ 

Ithilrian chuckled, allowing Thorin to help her upright once more, before brushing the snow from her gown. ‘Do not worry overmuch about my _ada,’_ she said reassuringly. ‘He says little; but he thinks much. I believe you will find that before he departs once more for Lothlórien, he will have become rather fond of you.’ 

Thorin shook his head, offering her his arm to lean upon once again, trying desperately to ignore the strength of the desire that had begun to pool hotly within him at finally being able to hold her so close. _Stop this at once,_ he told himself firmly, clenching his jaw. _She can barely walk, for Mahal’s sake. Control yourself!_ But it was difficult. Her warm weight was a constant presence at his side, and the memory of the sweetness of her mouth sent heady thoughts spiraling unbidden through his mind. 

‘I wish that you could lay with me tonight.’ Ithilrian’s voice was soft beside him, almost as though she was reading his mind. ‘I have missed your warmth at my side, _a’maelamin._ But I fear my bones are still too broken. For now, it would be safest if we do not share a bed, lest you roll onto me in your sleep. I do not believe my ribs could bear your weight just yet.’ 

‘Of course.’ Thorin nodded, swallowing hard. ‘You’re right.’ He hesitated, glancing cautiously up at her. ‘How long, do you think…?’ he began tentatively. Ithilrian arched an eyebrow in amusement. 

‘Not overlong,’ she replied, her voice laced with mirth. ‘A matter of some days, I hope. We elves heal fast when compared to mortal folk. But it will take longer for the scars to fade, I fear.’ 

‘The scars?’ Thorin hesitated, biting his lip anxiously. He had not been conscious when the sylvan healers had been attending Ithilrian’s wounds; by the time he had awoken, her injuries had already been fully stitched and bandaged. But he had witnessed first-hand the brutal impact of the weapon that had crushed her chest; and the memory of the bright blood that had seeped from beneath her armor and stained the snow leapt to the forefront of his mind. He winced. ‘How bad are they?’ he asked quietly. ‘How much damage was done?’ 

‘I know not,’ she replied. ‘For I have not yet seen beneath these bandages. When the healer next comes, I shall know.’ She sighed softly. ‘But I fear I will not look the way I did before, for some time at least,’ she added cautiously. ‘The scars, at least until they fade, might be a little…’ she hesitated, seeming suddenly awkward. ‘I simply hope they will fade by the time you look upon me once again,’ she murmured quietly. 

‘What…? Ithilrian, wait.’ Thorin stopped in his tracks. ‘You think that if I were to see your scars, I would think you… not fair to look upon?’ 

Ithilrian shrugged, turning her face aside, not quite meeting his gaze. ‘The thought had crossed my mind,’ she replied delicately. 

Thorin shook his head in bewilderment. ‘Strange are the minds of elves,’ he muttered, before squeezing her arm gently, reassuringly. ‘Ithilrian, please have no fears on that account. In dwarven culture, scars are seen as badges of honor, hard won in the heat of battle. They show courage, not weakness; and each is the mark of a trial endured or overcome. If anything, I will find you more beautiful because of them; because of the danger you willingly faced to save my life.’ 

‘Truly?’ Ithilrian looked down to meet his gaze, her grey eyes scanning his face searchingly. ‘Then… that puts my mind at ease,’ she said, the soft breath of a laugh whispering from between her lips. ‘I feel rather foolish now,’ she added ruefully. ‘There is so much I have yet to learn.’ She glanced down at the dwarf beside her fondly. ‘But it is good to know that before they are gone, my scars will not distress you. At the moment, I feel much like a patchwork doll: held together by nothing more than cloth and stitches.’ 

‘Before they are gone? What do you mean?’ Thorin replied, looking up at her in confusion as they walked. ‘Do you mean to say that your scars will not be permanent?’ 

Ithilrian nodded, smiling slightly as they navigated the stairs. ‘Indeed. Elven skin is resilient, _a’maelamin._ All scars fade, in time.’ 

Thorin shook his head ruefully. ‘I see. Then it would appear I still have much to learn as well.’ 

Ithilrian’s smile broadened, and she leaned into him comfortingly. ‘Take heart, my love. At least we are together in our ignorance. Things such as this are simply another part of the differences between us: things that we may come to learn over the course of the years.’ She continued her tentative steps down the stairs, allowing Thorin to take almost all of her weight. ‘Besides, when the sylvan healers deem it time to change my bandages, I shall see the damage for myself,’ she added quietly. ‘Only then can I give you an accurate guess at the span of days it will be before we can once more share a bed.’ 

Thorin nodded slowly. ‘Then perhaps that can work in our favor,’ he replied thoughtfully. ‘After all, dwarven tradition dictates that once a wedding has been declared and the date has been set, the betrothed couple should not be… intimate, during the time between the statement of intent, and the marriage itself.’ He smiled wryly. ‘For that reason, weddings are often officially declared a mere day or two before they occur; even if they have been many months in the planning.’ 

‘Truly?’ Ithilrian laughed softly. ‘Then am I correct in thinking that the more closely we adhere to your traditions, the less opposition we might face from those who are, shall we say… unwilling, to accept me as your bride?’ 

Thorin nodded uncomfortably. ‘Balin thinks it best to do so,’ he muttered. ‘Personally, I care little for the tradition. I would have you at my side, Ithilrian. I sorely miss your warmth beside me. But if we must indeed wait until your ribs are healed, then we might as well take advantage of it.’ 

‘Wise words,’ nodded Ithilrian fondly, smiling faintly as they finally reached the familiar doors of the small sickchamber. Thorin helped her lie back down, worry still gnawing at him at the sound of the low groan she made, as he helped her lie back upon the bed. 

‘I’m sorry,’ he muttered, a hot flush of shame creeping into his cheeks. ‘It was selfish of me to drag you so far up all of those stairs just now. I should never have…’ 

‘Peace,’ murmured Ithilrian tiredly, placing a gentle hand on his cheek and forestalling his apologies. ‘Do not feel the need to fret over every ache and pain these ribs give me; else you shall be doing nothing else for quite some time.’ She smiled faintly, arching up to place a small, sweet kiss on his nose, before allowing her head to fall back upon the pillows. ‘After all, soon we shall have many more things to worry about,’ she added wryly. ‘And unfortunately, a few aching ribs will not take precedence over the concerns of an entire kingdom.’ 

‘Very well,’ Thorin huffed, forcing himself to smile despite his concern. ‘Then I shall take my leave, and allow you to rest.’ He leaned down, pressing his lips to hers in a gentle, tender kiss; which swiftly grew passionate as she arced into him once more, reaching up with slender hands to wind her fingers through his hair, pulling him close. 

‘Ithilrian,’ he murmured against her mouth, the breath coming hot and heavy from his lungs. ‘We cannot…’ 

‘I know.’ The elf nuzzled him softly with her nose before relinquishing her hold once more. ‘But you may take that as a promise, my love, of things that are yet to come.’ 

Thorin nodded, his throat suddenly dry, trying to keep a reign on his swiftly rising desire. ‘Then I will hold you to that promise,’ he murmured softly in her ear, lowering his voice to a silken rumble that sent a soft shudder rippling through her. 

‘Good,’ she replied, her grey eyes bright. ‘For it is one I intend to keep.' 

Thorin nodded, extricating himself from her embrace with considerable reluctance. ‘Till tomorrow?’ he said, rising unsteadily to his feet. 

‘I fear it may be a little longer than that, my heart,’ she replied, glimmering mirth sparkling in her eyes once more. 

‘You know what I meant,’ replied Thorin gruffly, unable to stop smiling as he turned away. He paused after stepping outside and closing the door to her chamber, carefully straightening his tunic and hair. It would not do, he thought, to appear too rumpled and disheveled after visiting her. People would talk. 

But as Thorin strode regally down Erebor’s corridors once again, ignoring the murmuring whispers of the dwarves that still seemed to follow wherever he went, a lightness of spirit seemed to settle over him, and a great weight lifted quietly from his shoulders. _Thank you,_ he thought silently. For the memory of Ithilrian’s gentle smile hovered in his thoughts, and the faint music of her silvery laugh seemed yet to hang in the air beside him, brightening his heart. For while they had parted physically, still he could sense her at his side, even as no more than the shadow of a thought. And as night deepened around the Lonely Mountain, and Thorin made his way tiredly towards his personal sleeping quarters, he smiled: for he knew that for once, he was not alone; nor would he ever be again. 

~ 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translation notes: 
> 
> Sindarin: 
> 
> Ada = father  
> Mae g’ovannen = well met  
> Mellon nîn = my friend  
> A’maelamin = my beloved  
> Veleth nîn = my love
> 
>  
> 
> Khuzdul:
> 
> Kurdûnuh = my heart  
> Mên caile = loose woman (the closest khuzdul term I could find to a gender-based insult like slut or whore)  
> Madtubirzûl = golden heart  
> Ghivashel = treasure of all treasures.


	49. The Council Chamber

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a decision is finally made.

Ithilrian woke up feeling refreshed. A long night of uninterrupted sleep had done her good; and it had been a true sleep this time, instead of the cold death-like slumber she had fallen into after the battle. She inhaled deeply, pushing herself upright, glad to notice that the discomfort in her ribs was already lessening. The pain was still there, sharp and insistent as a serrated blade; but the ache was duller now, like a faded echo of the agony than she had felt in those brief, bitter moments before she had lost consciousness. _I am healing well,_ she thought with relief. _Thank the Valar something is going right, at least._

She raised her eyes up to the stone ceiling and sighed. Even here, fine threads of gold veined Erebor’s deep green stone, glimmering faintly in the candlelight. It seemed that the Lonely Mountain still held no shortage of wealth, despite the unnumbered riches already heaped within its treasury. _No wonder everybody seems so desperate to lay claim to it,_ she thought absentmindedly. _I wonder if that’s why the other dwarves came here seeking an alliance with Thorin? To share in the wealth of the mountain? For surely, here lies the greatest collection of treasures belonging to Durin’s Folk this side of the Sundering Seas._

Her ears twitched, detecting a single set of footfalls approaching, halting just outside her door. _Too quiet for a dwarf; too light for a human,_ her inner thought supplied. _Another elf, then. One of the Mirkwood folk?_ She was watching carefully as the door swung open and the elven healer Líenna appeared, stepping through tentatively, smiling faintly when she saw that her patient was already awake. 

‘You rise early, my lady,’ said the sylvan elf, dipping her head in respect. 

Ithilrian smiled. ‘I often wake at this hour. Some days, I like to watch the dawn break. And please, my name is Ithilrian. You do not need to address me in any other way, my friend.’ 

The healer smiled again, but this time her expression was bashful. ‘Forgive me, my lady. I know no other way to speak with royalty. To ignore your titles would be disrespectful; and before he left, my lord Thranduil gave strict instructions that we were to treat you with every courtesy.’ 

‘Truly?’ Ithilrian raised an eyebrow. ‘Then the Elvenking has gone from Erebor? I did not see him before he left.’ 

Líenna inclined her head. ‘That is as he wished; and if I may speak freely, I believe that perhaps it is for the best.’ 

‘And why is that?’ asked Ithilrian. She hesitated. ‘Have he and Thorin been arguing again?’ she said slowly. ‘Or has my father…?’ 

‘No.’ Líenna shook her head apologetically. ‘I fear the fault lies with me, my lady. For while you slept after the battle was done, my king brought the Lord Oakenshield to your bedside. I realized immediately that he was your bondmate. I addressed him as your husband, and he did not deny it; yet I do believe that was the first time my king had heard that you were bound in such a fashion. He swept away without a word.’ 

‘I see.’ Ithilrian sighed. ‘Then I am truly sorry for the lord Thranduil. But I have already told him plainly that I cannot give him what he seeks. My heart is promised to Thorin; and it will suffer no other.’ 

‘I know. And more to the point, so does my king.’ Líenna smiled sadly, settling herself into a seat at Ithilrian’s side. ‘I would guess that is why he remains distant, my lady. He knows now that you are truly spoken for. That your romance with the dwarf is not simply a passing fancy: something that would fade with the mists of time. I believe he felt the need to seek the solace of his woods, for a little while.’ The elven healer paused, looking Ithilrian up and down with a careful, professional eye. ‘But that is not what I have come to speak of,’ she added with a smile. ‘It has been some days since your bandages were last changed, and I wish to see how your injuries are doing.’ 

‘Very well.’ Ithilrian nodded. ‘I am in less pain this morning,’ she added. ‘The aches are not so bitter as they were yesterday.’ 

‘I am glad to hear it, my lady,’ Líenna opened her satchel in a businesslike manner. ‘But I still need to see for myself.’ 

‘As you wish.’ Ithilrian allowed the sylvan elf to help her out of her gown, trying not to wince as the movement pulled on her aching ribs. ‘You have been a healer for long?’ she asked. 

‘Most of my life,’ the elf replied with a smile. She pulled out a pair of silver scissors, and began to carefully cut away the pale linen that swathed Ithilrian’s upper torso. ‘You have been most fortunate,’ she added quietly. ‘Never have I seen anyone survive injuries such as yours. You live a charmed life, my lady.’ 

Ithilrian smiled thinly. ‘I was lucky,’ she replied simply, her voice barely above a whisper. ‘After the blow fell, I knew I was dying. I could neither breathe nor speak; but I could feel my blood trickling away, seeping into the ice, and my life slowly ebbing; before the wizard arrived. Then… nothing. Simply blankness, and silence, and empty space. It was… not an experience I would relish repeating.’ 

The sylvan healer nodded, intent upon her work. ‘Mithrandir was able to undo the fatal damage to your internal organs,’ she replied. ‘I simply cleaned up and repaired what was left over.’ With a final snip, the last of the bandages fell away. Ithilrian hesitated for a moment before glancing down, steeling herself for the worst. 

In fact, the injuries were not nearly so bad as she’d expected. One long, thick scar ran straight down her torso from sternum to navel, intersected at points by a tracery of smaller, thinner lines that crossed over her ribcage and beneath her breasts. _I look as though I’ve been slit clean open, and then stitched neatly back up again,_ she thought bewilderedly, reaching up to gingerly trace the long line with her finger. But the sylvan healer reached out swiftly, gently but firmly lifting her hand away. 

‘Please, my lady,’ she admonished. ‘Lie back, and let me do my work.’ 

‘My apologies.’ Ithilrian lay slowly back down, feeling the warmth of the coverlet shift beneath her bare skin. Beside her, Líenna was glancing over her scars with a sharp, professional eye, before reaching into her pack and bringing out a vial of thick, pale green ointment. This she began to daub thickly over Ithilrian’s scars, her slender fingers featherlight over the grey elf’s wounds. 

‘You are mending well,’ she said, satisfaction clearly evident in her tone. ‘I believe it is simply the bones that are still causing you pain; and in a moment, I will give you a draft for that. But your scars are already looking much better than before.’ 

Ithilrian nodded. ‘The are not nearly so bad as I expected,’ she replied. Already they had begun to fade, shading from red to pink to pale silvery-white all over her torso. The ointment was cool and soothing, and it smelled wonderfully refreshing: a blend of white jasmine flowers and the heady scent of fresh mint. ‘What is in that?’ she added, eyeing the jar curiously. 

‘It is my mother’s recipe,’ Líenna replied. ‘She was a healer before me, and her grandmother before her. It works wonders on scars and blemishes of any sort. If you like, I will give you the recipe.’ 

‘Thank you.’ Ithilrian sighed faintly, allowing her eyes to flutter closed momentarily, soothed by the gentle rhythm of the healer’s touch. 

‘There. I am done.’ Líenna sat back, wiping off her hands on a clean rag. ‘I shall leave a fresh jar of this ointment with you before I depart,’ she added. ‘I expect your husband would like to take on responsibility for that particular task…?’ 

Ithilrian hesitated. ‘Perhaps, but not just yet,’ she replied slowly. ‘I have found that dwarf law is a strange thing, _mellon nîn._ It does not acknowledge me as his wife; yet. There must be all sorts of long-winded ceremonies beforehand, as I understand it. Rituals to be completed, vows to undertake, contracts and documents to be signed…’ she trailed off, shaking her head. ‘It all sounds rather like hard work,’ she added, with a slight smile. ‘Yet because of this, I would deem it a great favor if you did not name Thorin as my husband in public; at least, not yet. Several of the dwarves are still struggling to wrap their heads around the idea of our union already.’ 

‘I see.’ Líenna inclined her head gracefully, before returning her attention to her bag, bringing out a roll of fresh linen bandages. ‘Consider it done, my lady.’ 

‘Thank you.’ Ithilrian sat upright again, lifting her arms as the healer bent to the task of re-bandaging her torso, wrapping the soft cloth around her firmly. ‘How did you know?’ she added quietly. ‘Did somebody tell you?’ 

The sylvan elf smiled faintly. ‘Nobody told me,’ she replied. ‘There was no need. I have been a healer for near two thousand years; and such bonding always leaves a mark, for those with eyes trained to see it.’ 

‘I see.’ Ithilrian inclined her head. ‘I bow to your knowledge and expertise,’ she added quietly. ‘For although I learned my healing lore at the side of Lord Elrond himself, my lessons were short, and marred by grief; and I feel there is much I do not yet know.’ 

Líenna nodded absent-mindedly, reaching for her scissors to snip the length of unused bandage away from Ithilrian’s torso, before neatly tucking and pinning the end in place. ‘There,’ she said firmly. ‘It is done.’ She glanced up knowingly at Ithilrian, tilting her head to one side. ‘I have wound the bandages a little tighter than I might have otherwise done,’ she added carefully. ‘For something tells me you will not willingly lie abed this day; and so I decided that your ribs might be in need of a little extra support. Was I correct?’ 

Ithilrian chuckled. ‘You were,’ she replied. ‘I have promised Thorin that I will accompany him to speak with the ambassadors from the other six dwarven clans. It will a hard day; for dwarves are stubborn folk, and changing their minds will be no easy task.’ 

‘In that case, I do not envy you,’ replied the healer with a smile. ‘My own duties now seem far less onerous.’ She repacked her bag, leaving the jar of ointment at the side of Ithilrian’s bed, before drawing out a small flask and handing it to her. ‘I keep them ready-made,’ she explained. ‘This should take away much of the pain from your ribs, and keep you on your feet. Take only four sips every two hours; for it is potent.’ 

‘Thank you.’ Ithilrian took the potion gratefully. ‘I find that I am once more in your debt, my friend. Should you have need of anything while you are here, all you have to do is ask; and I shall do what I can.’ 

‘My thanks.’ The sylvan elf inclined her head, a touch of shyness creeping into her smile as she helped Ithilrian to gently tug a fresh gown over her head. ‘I shall go now and let you rest,’ she added. ‘That is, unless you need my help for anything further…?’ 

Ithilrian shook her head. ‘I shall be fine,’ she assured the healer. ‘I know you have other patients to check upon.’ She smiled fondly as the dark-haired elf slipped from the room, closing the door silently behind her. Already she could hear a growing bustle within the mountain paths as Erebor began to wake up. She lay back, running her mind over several different ideas for the day ahead, until a familiar heavy tread and a tentative knock announced Thorin’s presence outside the door.

‘Come,’ she called softly, feeling her heart immediately lighten at the sight of her husband. He was dressed richly all in blues and silvers, his habitual shirt of mail peeping through the plush velvet of his midnight-blue overtunic. 

‘Ithilrian,’ he said warmly, coming swiftly to her side and darting her that soft, almost bashful smile that she had fallen in love with so many years ago. ‘I wasn’t certain you’d be awake.’ He glanced down at her, surprised. ‘Has the healer already been?’ 

‘She has,’ Ithilrian nodded, leaning carefully forwards to kiss her husband’s cheek. ‘She has given me a pain draft and redressed my wounds. I am ready to face the day, my heart.’ 

‘I see.’ Thorin frowned slightly. ‘I had hoped to be here earlier. I wanted to check upon your injuries myself.’ 

‘There is no need. They are already improving; and the scars are not nearly so bad as I had feared. There is no cause for you to be alarmed.’ 

‘I know. But you must allow me to worry over you a little,’ he replied, taking her hand and pressing it gently. ‘Are you sure you are feeling up to the task that lies before us?’

‘I am.’ Ithilrian nodded firmly. ‘We must address the ambassadors as soon as we can, Thorin. It will not do to let unfinished business fester amongst them, perhaps breeding even more discontent. We would be wise to seize any advantage offered to us.’ 

Thorin sighed. ‘I suppose you’re right. I’ll have Balin send them word, and you can walk with me to the Council Chamber. But do not expect this to be a pleasant meeting; and do not ask me to hold my temper if that lack-witted Ironfist is fool enough to insult you again.’

Ithilrian smiled. ‘I know you well enough by now, my heart. I do not expect miracles.’ She glanced fondly down at him, her grey eyes twinkling with mirth at his expression. ‘Come, my love,’ she added. ‘Lead the way.’ 

~

Ithilrian swallowed hard as they approached the heavyset chamber doors, steeling herself for the argument she was certain lay ahead. She walked slowly behind Thorin as he pushed the doors wide, and was met by the gazes of all six foreign ambassadors; as well as the slightly more welcome sight of Dain Ironfoot, leaning casually on his enormous battle hammer. 

‘Ah, there y’are cousin!’ Dain grinned ferociously. ‘I was just explaining to these blighters the importance of keeping a civil tongue in their heads, aye? Especially if they want you t’sign these treaties they keep bangin’ on about.’ His gaze rose towards Ithilrian, and he gave her a nod and a broad wink. ‘Good t’see you finally up and about lass,’ he added with a chuckle. ‘Come to see for y’self the bunch of misfits that’ve been giving Thorin such a hard time about making you queen?’ 

A sudden fit of embarrassed coughing seemed to erupt around the table at the dwarf’s blunt words; but far from looking awkward, Dain’s grin only widened ‘Aye, try dancing around the subject now, y’buggers,’ he added, looking unapologetically pleased with himself. ‘Because like it or not, that’s what we’re here to talk about. And frankly, I’ve got a thousand and one other things I’d rather be doing right now. So, let’s bloody well get on with it!’ 

Ithilrian could not suppress the grin that spread swiftly over her face at the truculent dwarf’s words. ‘You are full of surprises, my lord Ironfoot,’ she said warmly, inclining her head gracefully to the red-bearded dwarf. ‘But I must admit, I share your sentiments entirely. Thorin and I have a mountain to run, my lords: a task that only grows in weight with every passing day. Let us begin.’ She clasped her hands before her and looked steadily around the table, wondering which dwarf would be the first to voice a protest. 

‘My lords; my lady.’ A dwarf was slowly rising to his feet, his many intricate beaded braids reminding her a little of a black-haired Dori. ‘My name is Béln,’ he said. ‘And I am the duly appointed ambassador from the Stonefist clan. On behalf of all gathered here, I offer apologies for our last meeting. Matters… got a little out of hand.’ 

Beside her, Thorin grunted. ‘Apology accepted,’ he muttered, ushering Ithilrian towards a chair at the head of the table, before taking the one beside her for himself. ‘Let’s get started, then.’ 

‘Indeed.’ Ithilrian sat down, ignoring a stab of pain from her ribs as she did so, and drumming her fingers thoughtfully on the table. ‘Sons of Durin, I am afraid that when it comes to matters such as this, I am a woman of little patience,’ she added. ‘Therefore, I believe we should delve straight into the heart of the matter. Then perhaps, once we have fully ascertained the nature of the problem, we may seek a solution.’ She drew in a deep, steadying breath. _Oh well, here goes nothing,_ she thought nervously, steeling herself beneath the intent gazes of the gathered dwarves before her. ‘Putting my own personal feelings aside for one moment,’ she continued softly, ‘I am interested to know whether it is the proposed alliance between our peoples that you baulk at; or simply, the idea of an elf and a dwarf as bedfellows?’ 

A splutter of coughing rose from the dwarf on her right. _Ah,_ she thought to herself. _There sits one who is embarrassed by the idea; and by putting the matter quite so plainly. Good to know._ She turned her gaze upon him, keeping her expression amiable, but still fixing him with an intent and unrelenting stare. ‘I believe that answers my question, at least in part,’ she added quietly. ‘And the rest of you, my lords? What say you?’ 

The Ironfist ambassador scowled darkly. ‘It’s not right,’ he muttered. ‘It ain’t natural. None of it.’ He shifted uncomfortably as Ithilrian turned to stare at him, seeming unwilling to meet either her or Thorin's gaze.

‘I see.’ She arced an eyebrow questioningly as, beside her, Thorin rumbled something in unintelligible khuzdul that made the rest of the dwarves sit up straight, darting anxious glances towards her. 

‘We mean no offence.’ The Blacklock ambassador Kâzran spoke up hastily. ‘Please, Lady Ithilrian, do not assume we all share Azrarn’s opinion upon this matter. It is simply a concept some of us are finding difficult to come to terms with.’ 

Ithilrian smiled faintly. ‘Change so often is,’ she replied softly. ‘So let us deal with these matters one at a time. Firstly, the question of an alliance between elves and dwarves.’ She leaned forwards, steepling her hands and glancing questioningly at Thorin, who nodded decisively. 

‘Among other things, our marriage would bring about a strong alliance between the elves of Lórien and the dwarves of Erebor,’ he confirmed. ‘And I believe that will be all to the good; for at the moment, we have sore need of allies.’ 

‘Do we?’ The Ironfist dwarf wrinkled his nose in apparent disdain. ‘We’ve never needed the bloody elves before. What makes you want to play nice with them now; after everything that’s happened in the past?’ 

Thorin growled low in the back of his throat. ‘You would do well to watch your tone,’ he replied slowly. ‘Lest you forget how our last meeting ended.’ Behind him, Dain shifted almost imperceptibly, running a casual hand over the haft of his war hammer.

_Oh dear,_ thought Ithilrian, laying one slender hand upon Thorin’s forearm placatingly. _May the Valar save me from stubborn dwarvish tempers._

‘Please, my lords,’ she said firmly. ‘Let us look at the matter objectively. Your strongholds have indeed withstood the toll of many years; but times are changing. Where are the dwarves’ farmlands, my lords? Where are Erebor’s forests, fruit orchards, pasture land, crops and cattle?’ She spread her hands wide, indicating the lands around. ‘Since the desolation of the dragon, much of the land around the mountain has been laid waste. Lands that were once lush and green are now blasted and barren. The human farmers have gone, moved to greener places; and opportunities for trade around here are few and far between. Let us not dither around this matter any longer. It is a simple fact that, without aid, Erebor will begin to starve. There simply is not enough fertile land to sustain a growing population; and even if there were, I have been told that dwarves seldom make natural farmers. Our long-term position, quite frankly, does not look good.’ 

A hush fell over the table at her words. Every eye in the room had turned to her, and all the dwarves wore varying expressions of apprehension upon their bearded faces. Even Thorin glanced anxiously up at her, as though seeking an answer in her grey eyes to the problems she had just outlined. 

‘So… what do you propose?’ asked the Blacklock ambassador slowly. ‘Your words are bleak, Lady Ithilrian. They do not inspire confidence.’ 

‘They were not meant to,’ she replied. ‘Rather, they were meant to bring home the reality of our situation. Like it or not, Erebor has great need of allies among the other races.’ She smiled faintly. ‘We already have the goodwill of the Men of Laketown. Come the spring, I believe they have plans to begin resettling Dale. This is a start, my lords. But that still leaves us with an immediate problem.’ 

‘Aye,’ interrupted Dain, his expression pained. ‘We can’t keep relying on the Mirkwood elves for food like this. It’s not sustainable. And more to the point, it’s embarrassing. Thranduil’s going to become bloody unbearable if this goes on; even more so that usual. Something’s got to be done, lass. And if I’m right, you’ve got an answer, aye?’ 

‘I have.’ Ithilrian smiled faintly, allowing her gaze to roam around the table once more. ‘The earth from my mother’s gardens in Lothlórien carries a powerful enchantment upon it,’ she added carefully. ‘Even a small pinch would make the most blasted and weed-ridden patch of ground able to bear fruit once again. Just think, my lords, what such a gift could do for the lands around here. All that was laid waste; all that Smaug has ruined; it could be healed once more. The land could be made whole again. This coming spring, crops could be sown, and harvested; and within a year, Erebor could become self-sufficient once again.’ 

A ringing silence fell. Ithilrian held her breath. The dwarves were all staring intently at her; but she could practically see the wheels turning in their minds as they thought over all she had told them. 

‘That… truly, that would be a great gift.’ Ithilrian turned. It was Thorin who was speaking; Thorin, whose midnight blue eyes were turned up to her in an expression of wonderment and hope, which brought a painful tightness to Ithilrian’s throat.

‘Indeed.’ The Blacklock ambassador nodded slowly, his gaze shifting curiously between Thorin and Ithilrian. ‘And your people, they would offer such a valuable gift to the dwarves freely?’ 

Ithilrian smiled. ‘Yes. As a wedding gift, my lord Kâzran,’ she replied quietly. ‘For what better way to celebrate the union of two peoples, than bringing new life to a place once bare and barren?’ 

‘I see.’ All around the table, the dwarves were nodding slowly. Ithilrian waited, watching them come around to the idea, her stomach tightening with tension. _Please let this work,_ she thought internally. _It has to. They must see that this is the best viable option; not just for Erebor, but for everybody._

‘And… forgive me, but how exactly would this benefit those of us who do not plan to remain in Erebor?’ asked the Stiffbeard ambassador, seeming almost hesitant to ask. 

‘Trade,’ replied Ithilrian simply. ‘Erebor is the heart of the dwarf kingdoms, is it not? Your kingdoms seek an alliance with Thorin for many reasons; this simply adds one more to it. For if Erebor was to flourish in the manner I suggest, then a great many trading opportunities would open up; and of course, those who choose to become our close allies would greatly benefit.’ 

‘Ah. Of course. Thank you,’ replied the ambassador slowly. ‘It would seem that an alliance with your people comes with certain advantages none of us had foreseen.’ He hesitated. ‘Perhaps… perhaps then, my clan would be willing to… to stand in support of your union, my lady Ithilrian, my lord Oakenshield.’ He glanced around the room, his voice growing firmer as he did so. ‘Yes,’ he added decisively. ‘The Stiffbeards stand with the King in this matter. And the future queen,’ he added quickly; and at those words, Ithilrian felt her heart twist delightedly in her chest. _That’s one down,_ she thought triumphantly. _Five more to go._

‘As do we.’ Kâzran rose to his feet, planting his hands firmly upon the table and leaning forwards. ‘I came on behalf of the Blacklocks to ascertain the truths of various rumors. You have both answered all questions plainly, honestly, and reasonably. I thank you for your time, Lord Thorin, Lady Ithilrian. I have made my decision. Our people will support both this union, and this alliance.’ 

‘You have our thanks,’ replied Thorin immediately; and Ithilrian smiled to hear the genuine warmth in his tone. ‘Ours has been a road filled with perils and pain both. All we now desire is to live the rest of our lives in peace; and together.’ He glanced up at Ithilrian, taking her hand and squeezing it lightly; and at the sight of his smile, Ithilrian felt her heart soar. 

‘What say the rest of you?’ added Thorin, turning his gaze towards the other dwarves. ‘Are you with us?’ He paused, turning as the sound of hurrying feet came from outside the chamber, and the doors swung open once more. 

‘Ah, there you all are! I hope I’m not too late.’ Balin stood framed in the doorway, his dark eyes twinkling merrily. Behind him stood Ori, his arms piled high with what looked like a collection of dusty books and scrolls. ‘Gentlemen… and m’lady too, of course…’ He hesitated. ‘Are you certain you’re well enough to be out of bed, lass?’ he added anxiously, ignoring the others and staring up at Ithilrian with something approaching fatherly concern. ‘I thought the healers said that you needed rest?’ 

‘They did,’ replied Ithilrian, chuckling fondly. ‘But my wounds are healing; and I would rather be up and doing. It seems a poor show to lie abed all day, when there is much that needs my attention.’

‘Aye, well if you say so,’ nodded the white-bearded dwarf. ‘I hope negotiations have been going well?’ he added, glancing around appraisingly, before directing a glare at Thorin. 

‘They are.’ The Stiffbeard ambassador answered for all of them. ‘Myself and the Lord Kâzran have pledged our loyalty to the king and queen of Erebor.’ He shot a pointed glance around the rest of the room. 

‘An excellent start.’ Balin stepped up to the table, indicating that Ori should put down his burden. ‘Then if you will all bear with me a moment, I’ve found something that should cement the matter even further; and help seal the matter for those of you who remain as yet undecided.’ The younger dwarf laid his stack of parchments on the table, darting a shy smile at Ithilrian before stepping hastily back, fiddling nervously with his mittens.

‘What are those?’ asked Ithilrian, leaning forwards to examine the ancient documents, her attention temporarily diverted. ‘Did they come from the library?’ 

‘Some of them,’ nodded Balin, sorting through the small pile. ‘And some from the old archives which, luckily, have remained mostly untouched since Thrór’s day. They are records of days long since passed; before the days of the treaties, when clans used to feud and fight amongst themselves.’ He turned to the Stonefist ambassador, smiling amiably. ‘I heard rumor that you are something of a scholar?’ he added conversationally. 

‘A little,’ the dwarf replied, after a moment’s hesitation. ‘It is true, I have a passion for history.’ He smiled at Balin. ‘Something I believe we share, in fact.’ 

‘Indeed.’ Balin nodded, his smile widening. ‘Then perhaps you can tell us: in the old days, when two clans warred among themselves, what did tradition dictate should happen after the two clans finally made peace?’ 

The Stonefist ambassador opened his mouth to reply, hesitated, then snapped it closed once more and gave Balin a look of open admiration. ‘To cement the peace between them, each clan gave one of their royal bloodline in marriage to the other,’ he said, slowly, as though quoting a piece of remembered lore. ‘It was traditional for the youngest daughter of one clan to wed the chief of the other; or the eldest son, if the current ruler was already bound in marriage. Thereby was bad blood eliminated, and the threat of future wars diminished; for doom shall surely come to he or she who breaks the bonds of love, most sacred and binding of them all.’

A ringing silence fell; and Ithilrian felt a wave of gratitude sweep over her, as she glanced down at a beaming Balin. _That’s brilliant,_ she thought to herself. _Good old Balin. He’s completely out-maneuvered them._ She glanced down to find Thorin’s eyes upon her. They were sparkling brightly, as though mirroring her thoughts. 

‘Then… perhaps my union with Thorin Oakenshield is not so unusual after all,’ she said quietly. ‘For too long there has been bad blood between our peoples. Resentments continue to fester over deeds long since passed into distant memory. Perhaps now it is time, my lords of Durin. Time to drop the ancient grudges that hold our people apart; and unite. For my heart tells me we shall all have great need of strength in the times that are to come.’ She rose slowly to her feet, allowing her pale grey gaze to traverse the room, holding each and every dwarf in turn.

‘Spoken like a true queen,’ replied Balin quietly. ‘These are the documents here that prove it. After all, y’can’t really get more traditional than this. This… this is history. It is tradition. No-one will deny it.’ 

A ringing silence fell. Ithilrian held her breath. 

‘Very well.’ The Stonefist ambassador rose to his feet. ‘Your arguments are most compelling; and this indeed is ancient lore, sacred and binding to our people. I admit, it may be stretching the point a little, but… my people will accept it. As, I’ve no doubt, will the others.’ 

‘Then that is excellent news,’ replied Balin, rubbing his hands together delightedly. ‘But for the sake of formality gentlemen, I’d like to hear it spoken plainly; as I’m sure would my companions. Will you, my lords of Orocarni and Dolmed, support the union of Thorin son of Thrain of Erebor, and Ithilrian Tinnulenath of Lórien; sealing them together as a symbol of peace, and binding friendship, between the Lonely Mountain and the Golden Wood until the end of days?’ 

One by one, the dwarf lords all stood, offering solemn and formal agreements, and Ithilrian felt her delight growing with each and every one of them. Even the Ironfist ambassador bowed grudgingly, still eyeing Ithilrian with some suspicion; yet he voiced no protest when his time came to speak. 

‘Thank you.’ Thorin rose to his feet when all was done; and Ithilrian was startled to hear the depth of the emotion lacing the dwarf king’s voice. ‘I speak not just for my kingdom, but for myself as well,’ he added. ‘Long have Ithilrian and I fought to reach this point. It gives me great joy to know that we may finally achieve that which we promised one another… well, it seems like half a lifetime ago now.’ He paused, glancing up at Ithilrian, who could not help but reach towards him, taking his rough strong hand in hers and pressing it gently, while the words stuck in her throat. 

‘Indeed, my heart,’ she managed to say quietly, ignoring the sudden sting of tears in her eyes, as the enormity of what had just occurred began to sink in. ‘Never did I think to become a queen,’ she added slowly. ‘But there is no other place I would rather be; and nobody else I would rather share the last of my days with than you, Thorin Oakenshield.’ 

‘Well said,’ interrupted Dain, a glimmer of mischief clearly evident in his deep-set eyes. ‘But am I mistaken, or did I just hear a royal wedding confirmed?’ He glanced between Thorin and Ithilrian, not even bothering to conceal his mirth. ‘A wedding!’ he added loudly, grinning broadly. ‘Come on; let’s give the lads something to celebrate, aye? Drinks all around!’ He laughed; and it was with relief that Ithilrian noticed that the ambassadors were grinning too. ‘Go on then!’ he added, flapping a hand at Thorin and Ithilrian. ‘Get up on yon throne and announce the bloody thing right away!’ 

~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A shorter chapter than usual I'm afraid folks, just to tide us over until the next is ready. It may take me a little longer than usual to get the next one finished, as it'll be the wedding one - and I want to make certain that I get it right! My thanks for the patience you've all shown me so far. 
> 
> \- Mossflower_17


	50. A Royal Wedding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Thorin and Ithilrian finally get to have a dwarven wedding ceremony.

It was with a wildly hammering heart that Thorin strode back through Erebor’s winding corridors, heading towards the throne room by the shortest route he knew. He was dimly aware that a growing crowd of people had begun to follow him, all speaking with one another in hushed, excited whispers. But he did not care. His heart was singing within him, and a great bubble of joy was growing inside his chest: for a mountainous obstacle had just been overcome. _We can finally announce a wedding,_ he thought triumphantly, glancing back at the tall, slender figure of Ithilrian walking silently behind him. _After so long, we can finally make it official: and then nothing and nobody will be able to tear us apart again._

He led them into the hall, barely aware of the vast empty space that opened up above his head and beneath his feet as he strode proudly along the narrow stone walkway that led up to his ancient throne. Of late, he had refused to take his seat there; but no more. _It is time,_ he thought to himself. His footfalls were resonant in the cavernous hall, drawing the attention of all the peoples who had gathered into groups along the balconies and galleries that lined the open space above the throne, as flurries of whispered expectation flickered around the hall like quicksilver. 

_‘He’s going to do it! He’s going to announce it now!’_ The words seemed to be on everybody’s lips. He glanced back, to make certain she was still behind him, to find her hovering unobtrusively among the crowd of peoples that were following him. The group had grown drastically since they’d left the Council Chamber, and now contained several elves and men, as well as even more dwarves. But even as he drew near the throne, the group halted, leaving him to step out alone across the final walkway. He swallowed hard, mounting the dais before the throne; and as if by magic, all fell suddenly still and silent. He could feel the enormity of hundreds, perhaps even thousands of eyes focusing upon him as he turned to face his people, just as his grandfather had done so many years ago. He drew in a deep breath, willing himself to remain strong. 

‘People of Erebor,’ he rumbled, his voice low but resonant in the vast carven hall. ‘Listen to me well; for I have an announcement to make.’ 

He waited for the echoes to die away; and the silence that followed his words was almost deafening. He felt the gazes upon him intensify with expectation. 

‘For many days now, I have waited. No more. The time has come to celebrate our victory over the forces of evil that threatened to engulf our lands, and take away our home.’ He paused, gazing out over the vast space, his heart swelling with pride. ‘Our home,’ he repeated softly. ‘For too long I have been unable to say those words. But now, I say them with joy; for we are truly home once more. Today, I look around me, and see the rebuilding of the kingdom that was taken from us so long ago. So it is with great pride, and great hope, that I must announce… both a coronation; and a wedding. I am getting married. Soon, Erebor will not just have a true King Under the Mountain once more: but a Queen too.’

He was forced to stop as raucous cheers drowned out the rest of the words he had planned to say. He could not suppress the grin that spread over his face at the reaction. Phrases such as _‘about bloody time!’_ and _‘get on with it, then!’_ came floating down from the galleries all around. 

‘Where is she then?’ a louder voice called. ‘Where’s the Silver Lady? Where’s our Queen?’ The cry was taken up all around the hall. He hesitated, glancing down towards the crowd that was still growing in number, gathering some distance from where he stood. Ithilrian was amongst them, half-hidden among the rest of the elves and men, but still staring up at him with shining eyes. 

He did not need to speak. He simply held her eye, and stretched out one hand. Slowly, almost hesitantly, she stepped forwards, detaching herself from the chattering crowd; and it was as though a great hand had reached down and swept all sound from the place, as a ringing silence fell. A faint, pale light seemed to rise within her as she stepped forwards, alone but with infinite grace, gliding across the high arching walkway towards him. 

‘Ithilrian,’ he murmured, as she reached him. ‘My fair lady of twilight.’ He held her hand tightly in his, feeling her tremble slightly beneath his touch; but her pale grey gaze was steady. ‘Will you marry me?’ he added hoarsely, the breath rasping in his throat; for although he had already asked, suddenly the urge rose up within him once again. ‘Will you do me the honor of becoming my bride, and ruling this kingdom at my side?’

‘I will.’ Ithilrian said. She smiled, and at the sight Thorin’s heart seemed to melt anew; for it was a bright, warm smile that spread slowly over her face like the golden light of dawn that flows silently over the mountains with the rising of the sun. It seemed to fill her up, joy flooding into her eyes, making them sparkle all the brighter; and at her words, and her smile, it was as though a dam had been breached. A roar of noise swelled in the hall around them, as elves, dwarves and men alike raised their voices in whoops and cheers as, disregarding their audience, Thorin reached upwards and pulled Ithilrian into a searingly passionate kiss, threading his hands through her silver hair and gasping softly against her mouth as she responded in kind. She leaned in to him, her hands tightening upon his shoulders, pushing up against his mouth with a soft, low sigh that made something bright and hot and urgent pool inside of him. 

With great difficulty he pulled back, the breath coming raggedly in his throat as he struggled to contain himself. The blood was pounding through his veins as the cheering continued; and Ithilrian glanced bashfully away, a faint flush of color rising into her cheeks. He turned back towards the hall, raising his free hand and waving for quiet. 

‘Thank you,’ he managed to say, once the shouting had died down a little. ‘Thank you all for your support. Ithilrian and I… we have walked a long and weary road to get here.’ He glanced fondly up at her, to find her still staring down at him, her smile dazzlingly bright. He squeezed her hand gently, encouraging her to speak. 

‘Our path has indeed been filled with perils; but that is not what I wish to dwell upon today.’ He voice was low and melodious, but resonant in the vast chamber as she turned, raising her chin proudly to address the staring crowds. ‘Today is a day of joy,’ she added. ‘I hope you will join us in celebrating this union; as a symbol not only of love, and of peace; but of a new alliance between the Free Peoples of Middle Earth. Never again shall Erebor succumb to darkness; never again shall our family and friends be driven from their homes, and into the wilderness. This I will swear to you, upon the blood that courses through my veins. I vow to honor and protect this land with every breath in my body: for now, by the grace of my lord Thorin, I will become no longer a Lady of Lothlórien: but of Erebor. This beautiful place, this mountain… it is now my home.’ She inclined her head in a graceful half-bow, as cheering rose once again through the hall. Thorin squeezed her hand tightly, unable to speak for a moment as emotion welled up within him at her words. 

_She truly is renouncing her homeland,_ he thought wildly. _It’s real. This is really happening. She is staying with me. It’s as though every wish I made during our quest has come true._ He swallowed hard, deciding that enough was enough. He had only so much self-restraint left; and Ithilrian’s sparkling eyes and brave words had ignited a fire within him. He stepped down, encouraging Balin to come forwards. The older dwarf’s eyes were twinkling merrily as he stepped up, a long document already in his hands. He waved Thorin and Ithilrian away with a kindly smile, before clearing his throat regally. 

‘The wedding and coronation ceremonies will be held thirteen days from now,’ he said, his voice gentle but authoritative. ‘As we all know, Erebor is hardly in the best position right now to celebrate a Royal Wedding; but I’m certain that we shall all be able to rise to the occasion, and honor their majesties appropriately.’ He turned and winked at Thorin and Ithilrian, before reeling off a list of the newly-reformed guilds, and asking their leaders to come to the Council Chambers to discuss preparations. 

‘I’ll handle the details, don’t you worry,’ he said, turning back to Thorin and nodding. ‘You go and get some rest lass,’ he added, raising an eyebrow at Ithilrian. ‘I’ll wager you want those ribs of yours to be as healed as possible in thirteen days time, hmm?’ 

‘You are as astute as always, my friend,’ murmured Ithilrian, smiling gratefully. Thorin could not help but notice the faint blush that still stained her cheeks; and the way her eyes were glittering like diamonds in the torchlight. 

‘Come,’ he murmured, tugging at her hand. ‘Now that the announcement is done, let us go somewhere more private.’ He walked with her along one of the branching side paths that led away from the throne, careful not to set too fast a pace as he led her away from the audience chamber, and into the higher tiers of the city. 

‘Balin will have his hands full, dealing with the guilds,’ said Ithilrian softly, once they were some distance away from the crowds. ‘Are you sure we should not be there to help him, Thorin?’ 

‘No.’ Thorin shook his head. ‘He’d only shoo us away, just like he did just now. Usually, it’s the parents or close kin of the betrothed couple who deal with the details of the ceremony. All we will have to do is show up; and make certain we know our lines.’ He glanced up at her fondly. ‘Tradition again,’ he explained. ‘I have no close kin remaining, besides Dain and Fili and Kili; and you do not have any who know our ways, our customs. So Balin has volunteered to step in. He spoke with me earlier, offering his services; and truth be told, I was glad to accept.’ He snorted lightly. ‘The idea of Dain or my nephews organizing our wedding fills me with dread,’ he added with a chuckle. ‘Thank Mahal for Balin. He’ll make sure things run smoothly.’ 

‘I do not doubt it.’ Ithilrian laughed softly. ‘But do not be so hard on your cousin. I seem to recall that I have him to thank, in part, for your people’s acceptance of me; despite my race.’ 

‘That is true,’ nodded Thorin, squeezing Ithilrian’s hand lightly as he paused beneath a narrow stone archway. ‘But truth be told, it is not of Dain Ironfoot that I wish to think about right now. There’s something else I’d much rather do instead…’ He stared up at her, feeling desire blooming hot and heady through his veins as he tugged her gently towards him. She needed no further encouragement. Down she went onto one knee, the better to kiss him; and kiss him she did. Long, slow and languid was their embrace, yet it was no less passionate for that. Thorin found his hands shaking from the sheer intensity of it, her tongue a gentle curl in his mouth, her lips full and warm against his. With an ill-concealed groan he positively melted into her, his arms wrapping protectively around her waist, holding her close, as she pushed herself into the safety and solidity of his muscular chest, her fingers twining delicately through his braids. 

‘Ithilrian,’ he murmured, his voice nothing but a hoarse whisper as he broke away to gently nuzzle her cheek. ‘I love you.’ 

‘I love you too,’ she murmured, her voice low and mellow, laced with such tender joy that it near broke his heart to hear it. ‘Thirteen days, my heart. That is all we have to bear; until we may join once more, as husband and wife in the eyes of your people, as well as mine.’ 

‘Thirteen days,’ Thorin repeated, his voice thick with longing. ‘It seems almost an eternity, Ithilrian. If I had the choice I would simply sweep you from your feet right now, and carry you up to my chambers…’ his voice trailed off as his hands roved higher, remembering too late the bandages that still bound her upper torso. ‘I’m sorry,’ he added quickly, snatching his hands away for fear of causing her hurt. ‘I forgot… your injuries, are they…?’ 

‘Hush,’ Ithilrian replied, her voice laced with fondness. ‘Do not think on them. I heal swiftly, remember. Already I am in far less pain than the day before.’

‘Then… that is good,’ he replied, looking up into her starlight eyes, seeking affirmation. ‘But will thirteen days be long enough? Will you be able to…? I mean, if your ribs need more time…’ 

Ithilrian laughed softly. ‘Thirteen days will be adequate, I believe. The healer Líenna is a marvel. I dare say my scars will not have fully faded; but I will be whole once more, and in no pain. And that is what truly matters, yes?’ 

‘Of course.’ Thorin bent his head, nuzzling her tenderly. ‘I just want you to be well again,’ he added haltingly, guilt writhing sickeningly in his stomach. ‘The pain you’ve been suffering, your injuries… it’s my fault. I led you here; I brought you into my fight against Azog…’ 

Ithilrian pulled back, cupping his face carefully and raising his head, so he was forced to look directly into her eyes. ‘You are mistaken,’ she told him, gently but firmly. ‘No will other than my own has kept me at your side, Thorin. It was my choice; and these consequences are my responsibility, not yours. Never let grief or bitterness tell you otherwise.’ 

Thorin nodded, swallowing hard. ‘I dare say your father sees things a little differently,’ he muttered. 

Ithilrian sighed. ‘It is perhaps the curse of every parent to see their heirs as the children they used to be; instead of the grown men and women they become. Do not worry about my _ada._ He will come around, in time.’ 

Thorin nodded. Emotion was tightening his throat, making it difficult to speak; so he did not, choosing instead to simply lean forwards and take Ithilrian’s lips again, kissing her as urgently and ardently as a man dying of thirst takes his first draft of sweet water. 

‘Uncle! There you are – _argh!_ Mahal’s sake, get a room, you two!’ 

Thorin growled low in his throat as the shouts of his nephews reached them; but still he did not stop, feeling a tremor of laughter ripple through Ithilrian as he pressed her more closely against him.

‘Now then! That’s enough of that, y’buggers!’ 

With great reluctance, Thorin pulled away as the raucous voice of his cousin echoed down the corridor. Sure enough, when he raised his head, he was met with the sight of Dain Ironfoot, stumping heavily towards them, and looking mightily pleased with himself. 

‘I wondered where you’d vanished to,’ he said, grinning. ‘Sneaking away, eh? Y’can’t hide from me, Thorin. I know all your tricks.’ He halted before the couple, glancing from one to the other and nodding in satisfaction. ‘Good announcement,’ he added. ‘Nice and short. Leaves more time for drinking!’ 

‘Indeed.’ Ithilrian rose to her feet and smiled warmly down at the warlike lord of the Iron Hills. ‘I believe I owe you a great debt, my lord Dain,’ she added. Stooping swiftly, she placed a light kiss on his cheek, before pulling back and laughing softly as the dwarf flushed crimson and swiped at her playfully. 

‘Now then! Enough o’ that, lass!’ he replied with mock-severity. ‘Because firstly, I c’n tell young Thorin is getting jealous already; secondly, my lovely wife Dála would have a fit if’n she saw that; and thirdly, you two aren’t supposed to be canoodling up together like this till after the wedding, aye?’ 

‘Are we not?’ Ithilrian raised an eyebrow questioningly, glancing at Thorin for confirmation. ‘But we are betrothed, yes? Surely this is permitted?’ Beside her, Thorin coughed lightly, trying to ignore Fili and Kili’s muffled giggling. 

‘Well… following the strictest traditions, not any more. Not since the wedding was publically announced,’ he admitted gruffly. ‘We will most likely be kept separate, until the ceremony. Insofar as that’s possible, anyway,’ he added, flashing her a swift smile, which she returned with dazzling brightness. 

‘I see. In that case, it seems I shall have to steal moments with you whenever I can,’ she replied, a flicker of mischief dancing in her pale grey gaze. ‘At least, until our thirteen days have passed.’ 

‘That’s right!’ interrupted Fili, glancing between them hopefully. ‘Balin already has everything planned out. You’ll see, Auntie. Because you don’t have any relatives who can prepare you properly, you’ll have us. The Company, I mean. We’ll help you get ready every step of the way, right Kili?’ 

‘Right!’ nodded the youngest prince, his blue eyes bright with an almost terrifying enthusiasm. Ithilrian shook her head slowly, unable to conceal a fond smile as she gazed down at her honorary nephews. 

‘By the Valar, boys,’ she said gently. ‘It sounds like you’re preparing for a battle, not a wedding ceremony. Surely there cannot be that much involved?’ She paused, as Dain, Fili and Kili all burst out laughing, and Thorin shook his head and glanced up at her apologetically. 

‘Just you wait!’ grinned Fili, once he had recovered. ‘You’ll see. I reckon dwarf weddings are a bit more elaborate than elven ones, by the sound of it!’ 

‘You have no idea,’ muttered Thorin under his breath. 

‘Oh?’ Kili raised his eyebrows inquisitively. ‘So what’s an elven wedding like then?’ he paused, glancing up at Thorin in confusion, as his uncle was apparently struck by a sudden fit of coughing. 

‘That is something I shall perhaps discuss with you later, should you need to know,’ replied Ithilrian gently, placing a hand on the dwarf prince’s shoulder. ‘But not right now, Kili. Unless I am mistaken, there is much that needs to be done.’ 

‘Aye,’ nodded Dain, rubbing his hands together and grinning triumphantly. ‘Come on, lads. Oh, and lass of course. The sooner we start, the better!’ 

~

The following days seemed to pass in a blur for Ithilrian. True to form, Balin had taken an almost fatherly control of the proceedings. He had divided the Company in half, sending one to help Thorin with his side of the preparations, and keeping the other with Ithilrian, to act as an honorary dwarven family during the lead-up to the wedding. With Ithilrian were Balin, Dori, Nori, Ori, Fili and Kili, as well as Bilbo; who had already been officially declared an honorary dwarf in recognition of the part he played in the reclaiming of Erebor. Helping Thorin were Dain, Dwalin, Oin, Gloin, Bifur, Bofur and Bombur. So intent were they on keeping the royal couple separated that Ithilrian was barely able to snatch half a dozen words with her beloved at any given moment, before one dwarf or another whisked them apart once more. 

‘We take our traditions very seriously,’ Balin had told her sternly, after a week of such behavior. Ithilrian had been sullen for much of the day; and it had taken very little questioning to discover the cause. 

‘But Balin, I miss him. And he is in those rooms just down the corridor,’ she had protested, giving the old white-bearded dwarf a beseeching look. ‘Surely an hour or two of conversation won’t do any harm, will it?’ 

But the dwarf had been adamant. ‘Absolutely not,’ he told her. ‘If you’re going to go through with this, we may as well see things done properly. Trust me, it makes it all the sweeter in the end, seeing your spouse-to-be after spending some time apart. Besides, it’s only for a few more days.’ 

Ithilrian had drawn herself up, attempting to look regal and commanding. ‘Thorin and I have already spent ten years distanced from one another,’ she had retorted. ‘I believe that should serve as long enough.’ But her old friend had not budged; merely smiling and shaking his head before walking away, leaving Ithilrian inwardly cursing the stubbornness of dwarves. 

But truth be told, Ithilrian did not have much time to dwell on her absent husband. All around her, the Lonely Mountain was a flurry of activity. As the newly-appointed head of the reformed Guild of Weavers and Tailors, Dori had taken it upon himself to design her wedding dress; aided, most unexpectedly, by the Lothlórien elves and even Celeborn himself. The Lord of the Golden Wood had arrived unannounced at the suite of rooms that Ithilrian’s half of the Company had temporarily taken over, bearing a long roll of extremely fine white muslin. 

‘I understand you are a craftsman of considerable skill and talent?’ he had said, fixing the silver-haired Dori with a gently appraising stare. ‘Consider this a gift; and if you would be agreeable, my people and myself would take great pleasure in collaborating with you upon this design. After all, it isn’t every day a father sees his daughter wed.’ 

‘Oh, what beautiful fabric,’ Dori had sighed, running an expert hand over the muslin, seeming not at all intimidated by the tall elven lord. ‘It’s perfect for what I had in mind. If you like, I’ll get my sketching boards out and show you some of our designs. In fact, I reckon you’ll be able to help sort out some of the finicky details that have been giving me a headache for days. I’ve never had to design something for someone so tall before. I’ve even had to use a stepladder to get some of her measurements!’

‘That hardly comes as a surprise,’ Celeborn had replied with a smile. ‘Our people’s shapes and forms are very different to those of the Children of Aulë. But come, let us see these designs of yours. I feel that a mixture of elven and dwarven styles will be most appropriate for this particular occasion. Perhaps there are one or two details my people can add.’ 

Ithilrian had shaken her head, watching Dori lead her father away, already speaking enthusiastically to the tall elf as though he was just another of the guild’s workers, instead of a visiting king. ‘I feel that _ada_ may have finally met his match,’ she had murmured fondly. ‘We may have created a monster, bringing those two together. I fear that I shall have absolutely no say in what the final gown looks like.’ 

‘Don’t worry,’ Ori had reassured her, glancing up from where he had been working on the wedding contract, putting aside the eagle-feather quill he’d been using for the elaborate calligraphy. ‘Dori’s a natural with things like this. You should have seen the stuff he made back in Ered Luin.’ 

Ithilrian inclined her head gently. ‘I have the utmost faith in your brother,’ she had told him with a smile. ‘How goes the contract?’ she added, rising to her feet and peering over the young scribe’s shoulder. Ori had shot her a shy smile, rubbing his ink-stained fingers together happily. 

‘Almost done, I think. I just need to write the vows in, and finish the final flourishes, then it’ll be ready.’ He had smiled shyly up at her, reaching for another piece of far messier parchment. ‘Have you been practicing?’ he added. ‘I know khuzdul’s not easy to learn. But Balin says it’ll be brilliant, if you can say the vows in both our language and westron. It’ll make all the old grey-beards sit up; and he thinks Thorin will like it too.’ 

Ithilrian had shaken her head. The rough, sharp khuzdul syllables had indeed sat strangely on her tongue, the first few times she’d tried to say them. But it hadn’t taken long for her to become accustomed to the words. They would never come as easily to her lips as sindarin or quenya; but the idea of being able to say her vows to Thorin in his own language made a warm glow pulse gently within her chest. _Balin is right,_ she thought fondly, glancing down at the piece of parchment she was learning from. _Thorin will like it. I know that he will._

In fact, despite the amount of activity and preparation that was going on within the mountain, everything seemed to be running smoothly; if at times a little frantically. The only real problem had been the matter of the official crown. The head of the Guild of Historians had arrived one day at their chambers, triumphantly bearing a large gilded box in his arms, which he opened before them with an air of great reverence. 

‘I am _not_ wearing _that,’_ Ithilrian said flatly. 

‘What?’ The dwarf had gaped at her. ‘But… but… it’s the traditional crown! Worn by dwarven Queens throughout the centuries; the twin of the one that Thorin Oakenshield will soon bear! You _must_ wear it!’ 

Ithilrian shook her head stubbornly. ‘No.’ 

‘Why… why not?’ The historian spluttered indignantly. Ithilrian had to clench her jaw to stop herself laughing at the sight. In truth, the crown was a magnificent piece of craftsmanship, heavily wrought from purest gold, studded with every kind of gem imaginable. But it looked very large, and very heavy. 

‘I shall show you why,’ she told the historian, reaching for the gleaming object. ‘May I?’ 

‘By all means,’ stuttered the bemused historian, watching as she lifted the crown from its case and set it on her head: or rather, set it _over_ her head. So large was it, and so heavy, that it simply slipped straight down, over her pointed ears, ending up as a collar around her neck. 

‘It doesn’t fit,’ she said simply, arching a single eyebrow at the gaping dwarf before her. 

‘Oh dear.’ The historian shook his head in bafflement, glancing beseechingly at Balin for help; who could not help but burst into laughter at the sight that met his eyes.

‘Well now, this certainly won’t do,’ chuckled the white-bearded dwarf. ‘Come now, I believe a change of plan is in order. After all, we’re about to witness an entirely new future for Erebor. Why shouldn’t there be a new crown to go along with it? As we all know, this is history in the making.’ He paused, glancing knowingly at Ithilrian. ‘If I know the lady as well as I believe I do, then I think that something in silver would be more appropriate,’ he mused. ‘Perhaps even _mithril,_ if there is enough of it to be found in the vaults.’ 

‘That sounds far better,’ nodded Ithilrian, tugging the crown up and over her head, and laying it back in the box once more. ‘Gold is hardly my color. I am known in my homeland as the Silver Lady for good reason.’ She winked at Balin. ‘And perhaps… something a little lighter? We elves are not nearly so sturdy as dwarves; and that thing weighs more than I do.’ 

‘Indeed.’ Balin nodded. ‘Leave it with me, lass.’ He chucked to himself. ‘Thorin wagered you wouldn’t like it,’ he added, a mischievous twinkle appearing in his eyes. ‘Nori and Gloin owe him five silvers each now.’ 

Ithilrian laughed. ‘He knows me well, _mellon nîn._ As do you.’ 

~

The day of the wedding drew nearer; but despite maintaining a calm exterior, Ithilrian found herself becoming unaccountably nervous as the days dragged on. Whether it was because she missed the gentle warmth and comfort of Thorin at her side; or because all the fuss and fluster the dwarves were getting into was putting her on edge; or perhaps simply because Dori had refused to let her see the gown before the day of the wedding; but one day she found herself pacing up and down her rooms impatiently, a frown upon her face, trying hard to ignore the rising tendrils of panic coiling around her chest. The sheer weight of the mountain seemed to press down on her, the dark stone walls feeling almost like a cage: a prison, into which no wind, rain, or natural light could come. 

On impulse, she glanced over at one of the chests that had been moved into the shared rooms. They contained some of her things from Lothlórien that Celeborn’s retinue had brought with them; and not all of them were sparkling gowns or embroidered robes. Quickly and quietly she rummaged through her belongings, coming up with a simple pale green tunic and a pair of darker leggings. A swift change later, and another rummage in a different chest had her grinning in silent triumph. In her hands she held a grey elven cloak. She swung it around her shoulders, drawing up the hood to conceal her glimmering braids, before slipping unnoticed out of the door and walking swiftly away, down Erebor’s winding passages. With her hair concealed, and without her regal finery, few of the dwarves even gave her a second glance, let alone recognized her as their queen-to-be. 

She made her way to the gates. The reconstruction work was still ongoing, and she was forced to step lightly around the hard-working Lakemen who were still aiding the dwarves with the building work. Taking care to remain unobserved, she slipped quietly out of Erebor, climbing up onto the battlements, before further scaling the rocky mountain slope. Nestled a few feet above the gates was a narrow viewing platform, cunningly cut into the rock so as to be invisible from ground level. Clambering up onto it, Ithilrian allowed herself a small smile. Her ribs were aching faintly from the activity; but after the care and attention Líenna had given her over the past few days, the pain was barely noticeable any more. She pulled the cloak tightly around her shoulders, turning her face into the frost-laced wind that swirled down from the mountain’s higher slopes, bringing with it a handful of glimmering snowflakes. She loosed a long, slow sigh of relief. Finally, after spending days cooped up indoors, she could breathe again. 

‘Shirking your duties already, daughter?’ 

She jumped at the low voice that sounded behind her. Unnoticed, Celeborn had appeared behind her, swiftly and silently as a shadow. He came to stand beside her, resting one hand gently on her shoulder and smiling faintly. 

‘Hello, _ada,’_ Ithilrian replied quietly. ‘I wondered who would be the first to find me. It seems you still know exactly where to look, when I feel the urge to wander.’ 

Celeborn shook his head, smiling fondly down at his youngest daughter. ‘I always go to the high places,’ he replied gently. ‘I know how you love to look out over the world. You are very similar to your mother in that way.’

‘I know.’ Ithilrian laughed softly. ‘But I am not running away this time. I just… needed a moment to breathe.’ 

‘I understand. It is a heavy burden you are about to bear, Ithilrian. Crowns are easy to put on; but ever so hard to take off again. The responsibility for an entire realm is not something to be taken lightly.’ He hesitated, his hand still gentle on her shoulder. ‘Are you certain about this?’ he added in a low voice. ‘Is this truly the fate you feel calling to you, deep in your heart of hearts?’ 

Ithilrian sighed deeply. ‘It is,’ she replied. ‘This is where I belong.’ The breath hitched in her throat as she sought the words that lingered on the tip of her tongue, as though reluctant to be said aloud. ‘I am sorry if my choices have brought you pain,’ she added softly. ‘But still, they are my choices to make. I love nothing in the world so much as Thorin Oakenshield; and this is his home. The home he has fought and struggled and bled for over the years. He is everything to me, father. I cannot simply abandon him because I am apprehensive about what is to come.’

‘I am not asking you to do so.’ Celeborn shook his head. ‘I would have poor sight indeed not to notice the depth of the affection between the two of you. I simply wanted to remind you that once you are committed to this… there will be no going back.’ 

‘I know.’ Ithilrian inclined her head. ‘But I have made my choice. This is my path; and I shall suffer no other.’ 

Celeborn smiled fondly. ‘Good. You always had a strong will, Ithilrian. Once you made up your mind to do something, there was little that could sway you. I believe you will make a fine queen.’ 

‘Thank you.’ Ithilrian felt a delighted smile creeping over her face at her father’s words. ‘Thorin is still apprehensive about you,’ she added, glancing up at Celeborn and raising a slender eyebrow. ‘He believes you are angry at him; that you blame him for my injuries, for taking me away from the Golden Wood…’ 

She broke off as her father released a gentle breath of laughter. ‘I bear your dwarf no ill will,’ he told her reassuringly. ‘He has a good heart. I can see it. And truth be told, it is not he who took you away from Lothlórien. The Golden Wood lost its youngest child long ago.’ He smiled faintly, his grey eyes misting with memory. ‘Do you remember the night of the great storm?’ he added quietly. ‘It was while we lived in Eriador, beside the Lake of Twilight. You were only a tiny elfling at the time.’ 

‘I was,’ nodded Ithilrian. ‘But I can recall it still. It was wonderful. I had never seen or heard anything like it before; nor have I since.’ 

‘Indeed.’ Celeborn smiled fondly. ‘The rest of the elflings were frightened; for darkness had fallen swiftly, and the thunder sounded loud enough to tear the sky in two. Your mother gathered them indoors, and Celebrían sang for them, to soothe away their terror until the night had passed.’ He paused, and shook his head ruefully. ‘Not so you, my daughter,’ he added softly. ‘I can still see it now. How you ran all the way to the lakeshore, staring in wonder at the storm-tossed waters; before laughing into the thunder and lifting your tiny hands, grasping at the lightning as though you would pluck it from the sky.’ 

Ithilrian nodded, her voice suddenly hoarse, as waves of distant memory surged within her. ‘I remember.’ 

Celeborn sighed. ‘Since that day, I knew you had a wildness in you. Something bright and hard and dangerous. You must never let anybody take that away from you.’ 

‘I shall not.’ Ithilrian felt her chest tightening painfully as waves of emotion swept through her. ‘Thorin.. he _is_ the storm, _ada,’_ she said haltingly. ‘He is that which I have loved for so long, unknowing what I sought until I found it. Think upon it: he inspired a handful of broken dwarves to re-take their ancient homeland from beneath the nose of a fire-breathing dragon. What do you think he could do with an entire army; an entire kingdom at his back?’ She smiled, her eyes shining fiercely. ‘He is a force to be reckoned with,’ she added. ‘Bright as diamond, hard as mithril; and far more beautiful than either cold stone or precious metal. And now…’ she trailed off, the words faltering in her throat. ‘Now, we have so little time.’ She blinked hard, trying to stave off the sudden welling up of tears, as the words stuck in her throat, sharp and immovable. ‘How long do I have, _ada?’_ she whispered. ‘How long until he dies, and passes beyond my reach?’ 

Celeborn hesitated, turning towards his daughter and cupping her cheek gently, forcing her to gaze upwards into his eyes. ‘Do not ask me that,’ he said quietly. ‘I will not foretell; for all foretelling is now in vain. We tread an unknown path, Ithilrian. What lies in the shadows before our feet, we must discover as we walk.’ He closed his eyes and bowed his head briefly. ‘Come,’ he added softly. ‘Now is not the time to dwell upon such sorrows. The day of your formal binding draws nearer. Take joy in life while you may; and do not allow the shadow of the future to loom too heavily over you. For what may happen in the years that are to come, even the wisest cannot tell.’ 

Ithilrian sighed heavily. ‘You are right, as always,’ she murmured. ‘I am sorry. I dwell too much upon these things some times.’ 

‘I know.’ Celeborn extended one slender hand invitingly. ‘Steel your heart, daughter. Are you ready to return inside once more?’ 

Ithilrian nodded. ‘I am.’

‘Good.’ Her father smiled faintly, turning towards the south and shading his eyes, gazing out over the undulating landscape. ‘The shadows of twilight are drawing in,’ he added softly. ‘Do you wish to wait, and watch for the rising of the first star?’ 

Ithilrian shook her head, smiling once more as she descended towards the gates. ‘I do not need to wait to see it,’ she murmured, more to herself than to Celeborn. ‘It is with me every second of every day.’ She glanced upwards, smiling warmly at the shades of dusk that were beginning to creep into the pale wintry air, like the breath of mist that wreathes a snowy mountain peak; before taking down her hood and running one hand over her silver hair. _The twilight star of Lórien,_ she thought to herself. _That was what they used to call me. But soon, no more._ She smiled faintly. _A star hidden deep within the heart of a mountain,_ she thought. _These are indeed strange and wondrous times we live in. Much that once was is lost; yet while the future is as yet uncertain, there is one thing I know. In three days time, I will be wed to Thorin Oakenshield; and take up my place as Queen at his side._ And even as she stepped back into the torch-lit caverns of Erebor, and allowed her father to escort her back up to her rooms, she smiled. Dark and made of stone the mountain might be, but in three days time, it would be _her_ mountain; and it was already beginning to feel a little more like home.

~ 

The final days passed with little incident. But she could not help noticing that at times, Kili seemed far from his usual cheerful self. Whenever he thought nobody else was watching, a faint scowl of sorrow and frustration would cloud his face; and Ithilrian noticed that he went often down to the gates as the sun was setting. 

_This will not do,_ she thought to herself. _He and Fili are usually as merry as the day is long. To see him appear withdrawn and sorrowful like this…? Something must have happened._

She approached him one evening, as the shadows of dusk began to wrap themselves around the mountain. Dressed once more in her grey elven cloak, Ithilrian was able to slip relatively unnoticed through the mountain, following the youngest prince, until her sharp ears told her that nobody was in earshot. 

‘Kili,’ she called softly. ‘Wait.’ She saw him jump, and whirl around anxiously, seeking the source of the sound, before she stepped out of the shadows. 

‘Auntie!’ he said, smiling lopsidedly at her in greeting. ‘What’re you doing here? Shouldn’t you be back in your rooms, doing… um, bride things? You’re getting married tomorrow!’ 

Ithilrian smiled wryly. ‘I had not forgotten. But I have been doing bride things all week, _mellon nîn._ Come, let us walk. There is something I have been meaning to ask you.’ 

Swiftly she led him back through the mountain passageways, seeking privacy; before an idea occurred to her, and she changed direction, heading upwards. The _Madtubirzûl_ chambers were on the highest level of Erebor’s seven-tiered citadel, well out of the way of the mountain’s habitual bustle. She had not been officially granted use of the rooms just yet; but still, she did not think that Thorin would begrudge her a few minutes there, in order to discover what was discomfiting his youngest nephew. 

‘These are your rooms, are they?’ said Kili, as she closed the door gently behind him. ‘They’re some of the prettiest ones in the mountain, you know. Uncle chose them for you specially.’ 

‘I know,’ replied Ithilrian gently. ‘Thorin has been most generous.’ She stepped lightly over to the stone doors at the opposite end of the room, pushing them wide, allowing the bright, cold mountain air to stream in. The sun was setting in a haze of dusty crimson, lighting a glimmering fire on the underbelly of the low-hanging clouds. She watched Kili step forwards to lean on the balcony rail, his gaze upturned. 

‘You have been to the gates to watch the sun set often of late,’ she murmured, coming to stand beside the youngest prince. ‘What ails you?’ 

‘Nothing,’ he replied, far too quickly for it to be true. ‘I’m fine, Auntie. There’s nothing you need to worry about.’ 

Ithilrian shook her head. ‘No, my dear nephew, you are not fine. I can see it. You look sorrowful, when you think no-one is watching.’ She placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. ‘Talk to me, Kili,’ she added softly. ‘If it is within my power to help, I will.’ 

Kili loosed a low, frustrated sigh. ‘I’m sorry,’ he muttered. ‘You’ve got enough stuff to worry about at the moment, what with becoming queen and all. I don’t want to be a bother.’ 

‘You are not,’ Ithilrian said firmly. ‘I would see you happy once again, Kili. Come now, tell me what the matter is.’ 

‘It’s Tauriel.’ Kili blurted out the words, fiddling awkwardly with the embroidered cuff of his sleeve. ‘She’s… I overheard her talking the other day. About leaving the mountain, and going back to Mirkwood.’ 

‘I see.’ Ithilrian lowered her head. ‘And you do not wish for her to leave?’ 

Kili shook his head vehemently. ‘No. And I know it’s stupid, and selfish, and that she can go wherever she likes, but…’ he shrugged awkwardly, avoiding her gaze. ‘I really like her,’ he confessed. ‘Like… _really._ Auntie, I think, I think I might love her. I don’t want her to go.’ 

‘Oh, Kili,’ breathed Ithilrian, smiling warmly. ‘Have you told her any of this? Have you made your feelings known?’ 

‘Um… not yet. Not exactly.’ The young dwarf shuffled his feet awkwardly. ‘I’ve not really had the chance. She’s been busy. Besides, I’m not very good with words.’ 

Ithilrian squeezed his shoulder lightly. ‘Be that as it may, I believe you should tell her,’ she told him gently. ‘It may be that she is considering leaving because she does not understand your intentions towards her. Elves give their hearts but once. For her, this would be an enormous step to take; and not one she would take lightly.’

‘Really?’ Kili said, glancing up at Ithilrian in surprise. ‘Only once? Like… if you fell in love with someone who didn’t love you back, that’d be it?’ 

Ithilrian inclined her head. ‘Yes.’ 

Kili wrinkled his nose. ‘That sounds terrible. Think how horribly lonely you’d be, if you loved someone who didn’t love you back. For eternity, as well.’ 

‘Yes.’ Ithilrian sighed, glancing away, as a cold, familiar ache seemed to pulse gently within her chest. ‘A lonely eternity indeed.’

Kili glanced up at her, gaping for a moment. ‘Wait… is that what… before Uncle got up his nerve to ask you… is that what you thought? That’d you’d fallen for someone who’d never love you back?’ 

‘It is.’ Ithilrian smiled faintly. ‘Luckily, I was wrong.’ 

‘Well yeah, obviously… but I mean, that’s awful! Auntie, how could you do such a thing? For ten years you thought he didn’t even care!’ 

Ithilrian arched an eyebrow. ‘I have not forgotten that,’ she replied dryly. ‘I spent a decade in Imladris suffering the effects of my choice, if you recall.’ 

‘Rivendell?’ Kili furrowed his brow in thought. ‘You said you were sick,’ he added slowly. ‘When we first met you again in Bag End; you told Fili and I that you’d been unwell, and that’s why you hadn’t visited.’ 

‘And I told you the truth,’ she replied simply. ‘Just not quite the whole of it.’ 

Kili winced. ‘So when you said you’d been ill…’ he glanced up at her expectantly. Ithilrian sighed, reluctant to explain. 

‘It is… something you could call a soul-sickness,’ she said quietly. ‘For elves, to find the other half of one’s soul, only then to be torn forcibly away, causes great internal pain. Thank the Valar you will never have to feel it.’ 

Kili’s eyes widened. ‘Does Uncle know?’ 

‘No.’ Ithilrian shook her head. ‘The knowledge would only be a burden to him. Besides, that is all in the past now. We must look to our future days.’ She smiled fondly down at Kili. ‘That is why you must go and speak with Tauriel as soon as you may,’ she added quietly. ‘Tell her how you feel about her; and I would be very much surprised if her answer is not the one you wish to hear.’ 

‘What?’ Kili stuttered. ‘You mean… you think she’ll, that’s she’ll stay? With me?’ 

Ithilrian inclined her head. ‘I do.’ 

‘But… elves are immortal.’ He stared up at her beseechingly. ‘She’ll outlive me, Auntie. By centuries, probably. Does that mean that if she says yes… if she decides to stay with me… that once I’m gone, she’ll be all alone forever?’

Ithilrian hesitated, staring down into Kili’s wide blue eyes. Part of her wanted to lie; to spare him the pain that the knowledge might bring. But she could not do it.

‘Yes, Kili,’ she said eventually. ‘To love a mortal means to face the world alone, after they have gone to the sea. It is a choice few of my folk have ever made.’ 

‘Oh.’ Kili frowned, setting his jaw determinedly. ‘I can’t do that to her,’ he said quietly, almost more to himself than to her. ‘It wouldn’t be fair. I can’t ask her to stay with me if that’s what’ll happen.’ 

Ithilrian shook her head slowly. ‘Surely that is a decision you do not have the right to make,’ she replied quietly. ‘It is her choice, Kili; as it was mine, long ago. If you truly do love her, then tell her. Lay all before her: and then she will be able to choose. If, as I suspect, her heart is already in your keeping, then your years together will be filled with joy. And if not… then you will know. For surely, that is better than a lifetime of uncertainty.’ 

Kili shifted uncomfortably. ‘You’re right,’ he said forlornly. ‘Sorry. I didn’t think of it that way.’ 

‘Mortals seldom do.’ Ithilrian smiled faintly. ‘There is much we have to learn about one another, is there not?’ 

‘Hah.’ Kili shook his head, the ghost of his habitual grin flitting over his face. ‘I s’pose you’re right there as well.’ He nodded, almost to himself. ‘I’ll do it,’ he muttered. ‘I’ll go now. The guard shift’s about to change. If I’m lucky, I’ll catch her as she comes off duty.’ 

‘Good.’ Ithilrian smiled, relieved at the lightening of Kili’s mood. ‘Bring her up here, if you wish. That way, you may have some privacy.’ 

Kili beamed. ‘Thanks, Auntie!’ He reached up to her; and Ithilrian allowed him to pull her into a careful, albeit clumsy, hug. ‘Sorry if I hurt your ribs,’ he muttered, releasing her. ‘Are you okay?’ 

‘I am perfectly all right,’ she reassured him. ‘My ribs are now healed. Besides, I am the last person you should be worrying about right now. Go, Kili; and may the grace of the Valar go with you.’ 

She watched, smiling fondly as the young dwarf positively skipped away, slamming the door behind him before hurtling at speed down the hall. _About time,_ she thought drily. _It seems that soon Thorin and I will not be the only interspecies couple within Erebor._ She turned back to the balcony, watching the sun setting, as the shadows lengthened and the cool night breezes ruffled her silver hair. _The world is changing,_ she thought to herself. _For good or ill, I do not yet know. Only time may tell us that._

She turned away, heading silently back to her rooms. _One more day,_ she thought as she walked. _Only one; for tomorrow, my fate shall be sealed before the eyes of everybody within this mountain._ She felt a tremor of excitement ripple through her at the thought of it, rehearsing her wedding vows in her head as she walked. _One more day,_ her inner thought repeated. She smiled. Despite the fact that she was already married to him by elven custom, Ithilrian found that she was growing more and more eager to undergo the formal bonding ceremony that the dwarves seemed to heap such importance upon. She also could not wait to see Thorin again. _Not long now,_ her inner thought whispered. _In a matter of hours, there will be a wedding._

~

The next day dawned bright and fresh and crisp. Ithilrian was up at dawn, unable to stay abed any longer. The entire mountain seemed to be thrumming with expectation. Food was being prepared, brought in especially by barge from the Woodland Realm. Ale casks were broached, wine barrels were tapped, and the wood elves had begun to decorate the main hall with great armfuls of winter greenery, bringing the fresh, heady scent of pine and fir into Erebor. Even the problems with the crown had been swiftly resolved, Balin assured her privately. The Guild of Crafters and Jewelers had been more than happy to take on the commission of a new Royal Crown; a pair of them in fact, for Thorin had also spurned the traditional crown worn by his forbears, and asked for something more in keeping with the one Ithilrian was to wear. 

But for Ithilrian, the first moment of joy came when Dori finally announced that her wedding dress was ready. He ushered her into the chamber he’d been using as a workshop; and Ithilrian’s jaw dropped. 

‘Dori,’ she breathed, her eyes fixed upon the gleaming gown hanging from a narrow rail. ‘How did you do this? It’s beautiful.’ She stepped forwards, running a tentative hand over the shimmering fabric. The dress was entirely white; and it glimmered in the lamplight like a bright spill of new-fallen snow. 

‘Put it on,’ said Dori, nodding approvingly at her reaction. ‘I’ll turn m’back, don’t worry. I’ve spent so long on the fiddly embroidery, I simply can’t wait any longer to see what it looks like on you.’ 

Ithilrian grinned. ‘Neither can I, _mellon nîn.’_ Swiftly she shrugged off her simple shift, slipping on the gleaming dress with little trouble. ‘Well?’ she said, after tapping Dori on the shoulder, indicating that he could turn around. ‘What do you think?’ 

The dwarf turned, and gasped in astonishment. Cunningly sewn from a mixture of white silks, satins, and fine muslin, the gown had a wide, scooped neck that sat just off her shoulders, the hem of which had been cunningly embroidered with silver thread and bright shards of glimmering diamond. The sleeves were wide and diaphanous, but the bodice was close-fitting, heavy with yet more diamonds, wrapping snugly around her slender figure and fastening almost invisibly at the side thanks to a set of clever dwarven clasps. The skirts were made from layer upon layer of white muslin, with a long train that swirled into beautiful, ethereal patterns around her feet as she spun slowly on the spot. 

‘Oh my days,’ mumbled Dori, starry-eyed. ‘Oh, by Durin’s beautiful beard. You look wonderful.’ 

Ithilrian felt a faint flush of pleasure. ‘Thank you,’ she murmured. ‘Truly, you are a Craft Master, my friend.’ She leaned in to carefully hug the silver-haired dwarf, who was practically in tears. ‘I mean it,’ she whispered. ‘Thank you for all you have done over these past days, Dori. I shall never forget this. Never.’ 

‘It’s only a dress,’ fussed Dori, batting away her words embarrassedly, yet beaming gratefully nonetheless. ‘Come on, let’s see what the others think. I bet they’ll be bowled over by it; and you.’ 

Dori had been right. When Ithilrian entered the room where the dwarves were all making their final preparations, a momentary hush fell; before the entire chamber seemed to suddenly resonate with a round of whoops and yells. Dori shook his head and huffed in delight as his younger brothers pounded him on the back, congratulating him on his work. 

‘Brilliant! Best thing you’ve done yet!’ grinned Nori, who was looking at the diamond embroidery with a calculating eye. ‘Probl’y the most fanciest as well!’ 

‘It really is very pretty,’ nodded Ori enthusiastically. ‘You look so lovely, Miss Ithilrian. Thorin’s going to love it.’ 

‘He certainly will!’ nodded Balin approvingly. ‘By my beard, you’re a sight for sore eyes, lass.’ 

Gloin sniffed. ‘Reminds me of m’own lovely wife,’ he muttered, before Dwalin cuffed him soundly on the back of his head. 

‘Your wife has red hair, and a beard even bigger than mine!’ the tough warrior snapped. ‘Ignore him, m’lady. Gloin’s a sentimental old blighter at times like these.’ 

‘All brides have the same beauty on their wedding day,’ retorted Gloin, cuffing Dwalin back. ‘Y’should know that, by Mahal. And Miss Ithilrian, y’look positively glowing. Are y’ready?’ 

‘I am.’ Ithilrian ran a hand over her hair, having already made the decision to leave it loose; save for one slender braid just beside her left ear, which still had Thorin’s courtship bead firmly affixed to it. But after spending so many months with the whole mass firmly held in place by her travelling braids, it felt strange to wear her hair unbound once more, flowing in great curling waves over her shoulders and down to her waist. 

‘Right.’ Balin rubbed his hands together in a businesslike fashion. ‘You lot, get down to the hall. I’ll go and let the others know we’re good to go. Won’t be a jiffy.’ 

Ithilrian smiled, swallowing nervously as her friends filed out of the door to go and take their places in the hall, ready for the ceremony. It only took a few minutes for Balin to return; but those few moments alone felt like an eternity to Ithilrian, who began to pace up and down impatiently. 

‘Now then, none of that,’ Balin remonstrated from the doorway, his eyes twinkling amusedly. ‘You’ll wear out that dress before the wedding if you’re not careful.’ 

Ithilrian halted, smiling ruefully. ‘My apologies, old friend. Waiting around like this is making me nervous.’ 

Balin nodded approvingly. ‘Well, the wait’s over. As honorary family, I’m here to escort you to the main hall. Are you all right?’ 

Ithilrian nodded. ‘I am fine.’ She dipped her head gracefully towards the older dwarf and stepped forwards. Balin’s hair and beard had been neatly combed, and twisted into intricate braids for the occasion. He bowed low as she approached, but when he finally straightened up Ithilrian was shocked to see tears glimmering in the old dwarf’s eyes. 

‘Balin, my old friend,’ she murmured softly, reaching out and taking his gloved hand in hers. ‘Why do you weep?’ 

He just smiled in reply and shook his head. ‘Today is a special day,’ he replied simply, squeezing her hand gently. ‘You look radiant,’ he added, looking her up and down and nodding with great approval. ‘I’ll be very surprised if Thorin’s jaw doesn’t hit the floor when he sees you, lass. Sorry – m’lady, I meant to say.’ 

Ithilrian shook her head. ‘Please, Balin, my old and trusted friend. We need no titles between us. A simple lass is what I’ve always been; what I always wanted to be.’ She sighed deeply. ‘And look at me now,’ she murmured. ‘About to become Queen of this vast and beautiful place. Never in my wildest imaginings did I think of such a thing.’ She chuckled softly. ‘But then, if somebody had told me ten years ago that I’d be marrying Thorin Oakenshield this day, I would have laughed and called them mad; or drunk, perhaps.’ 

‘Aye,’ grinned Balin, his eyes twinkling fondly. ‘Same here, I suspect. Are you feeling okay? Are y’ready to go down to the hall? Take all the time you need, my dear. After all, what’ll they do? They can’t exactly start without you.’ 

‘True enough,’ smiled Ithilrian, drawing in a deep, slow breath. ‘But I believe we should go sooner, rather than later,’ she added. ‘If I stay here any longer, I fear the nerves will unsettle me even more.’ 

‘Very well.’ Balin grinned, offering her his arm. She took it delicately, and together they descended the steeply sloping stairs that would take them into the main hall. It was almost eerily silent, thought Ithilrian as they walked. Over the past few days, Erebor had always reverberated with the hustle and bustle of many feet moving to and fro. Now, it was as though an unearthly hush had descended. The entire mountain seemed to be holding its breath. 

The great doors swung wide. Ithilrian gasped. The hall had been decked with hundreds upon hundreds of crystal lamps, polished and gleaming and throwing such a pure, bright radiance over the ancient gold-veined stone that tears sprang to her eyes at the sheer beauty of it all. Row upon row of elves, dwarves and men lined the hall, as well as the balconies and galleries above; and at her appearance, the quiet before was nothing compared to the sudden, ringing silence that fell as she stepped forwards. Balin’s footsteps seemed unbearably loud as they descended the final steps, towards the central aisle that had been set up, where her father was waiting. 

Balin bowed again when they reached Lord Celeborn, taking Ithilrian’s hand in his and offering it formally to her father. With a graceful incline of his head, the elf accepted. Ithilrian nodded gratefully to Balin as the dwarf took a pace back, giving Ithilrian an encouraging wink before retreating to the back of the crowd, in order to make his way separately up towards the raised podium at the end of the hall. 

Silently she stepped forwards; and suddenly, it was as though the hall, the people, everything had vanished. For there, standing waiting for her at the end of the narrow walkway, was Thorin. Bright and beautiful as the sun itself he appeared to her, his silver-streaked mane of raven hair gleaming in the light, his eyes sparkling like twin cut sapphires. She looked neither left nor right as she walked towards him, willing herself to maintain a steady pace, fighting against the urge to simply abandon all protocol and run. Whether it was the enormity of the occasion that made her heart thunder in her chest; or whether it was the days they had spent apart that made his beauty seem to shine all the brighter; or whether it had been too long since she had allowed herself to look at him; to really, truly _look_ at him, she did not know. All she knew was that a fierce, proud joy swelled in her heart at the sight of him, robed entirely in silver and midnight blue, his expression creased into a look of pure wonderment as she stepped closer. 

To Thorin, it seemed as though a star had descended from the heavens as soon as she appeared in the doorway. Her snowy white gown seemed to glow in the lamplight, fold upon fold of delicate fabric shimmering about her slender figure, magnifying the faint pale radiance that seemed to grow within her as she made her way towards him. His heart surged with pride at the way she walked: slowly and regally, with her head held high, showing no hint of nerves or trepidation, like a true queen coming to claim her kingdom. Her grey eyes latched onto his; and it was all he could do to hold himself together at the sheer weight of emotion he saw deep within her pale grey gaze. 

‘Ithilrian,’ he murmured as she drew close, unable to prevent the word from slipping from his lips. 

‘Thorin,’ she replied, as softly as a breath of wind, coming to stand before him, dipping her head in elegant acknowledgement; and he was forced to clench his fists to prevent himself from sweeping her into his arms then and there. 

‘Ahem.’ A dry cough sounded beside them. Balin stepped up to the lectern, a fond expression upon his face as he glanced between them. ‘Welcome, to all who have come here this day,’ he began. ‘And welcome in particular to Thorin Oakenshield, son of Thrain, son of Thrór, King Under the Mountain; and welcome also to Princess Ithilrian Tinnulenath of the Twilight Star, Silver Lady of Lórien. We are here to honor the union of your two houses; and also to celebrate peace, and lasting friendship, between the Dwarves of Erebor and the Elves of Lothlórien.’ He paused, turning to address Celeborn, who was waiting silently beside Ithilrian. ‘Will you, Lord Celeborn of the Golden Wood, offer this dwarf the gift of your youngest daughter?’ 

Celeborn smiled faintly, inclining his elegantly crowned head to both Balin and Thorin. ‘This is my daughter, and I do give her to you; yet I would have you know that she is yet wild, and free of spirit, and is drawn here by no will other than her own. May she be a light for you in dark places, when all other lights go out.’ He took Ithilrian’s hand and placed it in Thorin’s own with an almost reverent care; and Ithilrian could not help but notice that her dwarf’s hand was trembling. 

‘Very good.’ Balin nodded approvingly. ‘Now then, the vows. As is customary, I believe her Ladyship should speak first.’ 

Ithilrian nodded, taking in a deep, steadying breath, trying to quell her nerves, willing herself to speak in the sudden, cavernous silence. 

‘I, Ithilrian Tinnulenath, do hereby swear by all that I hold dear, that I love you, Thorin Oakenshield, like I love no other in this world,’ she began slowly, her eyes fixed on Thorin; and as she spoke, she could see the emotion welling up in the dwarf’s blue eyes. She felt fresh confidence bloom within her at the sight, and her voice grew stronger, rising to fill the cavernous hall. ‘You are my heart, my spirit: the other half of my soul,’ she continued, smiling softly as she did so. ‘I swear to be true to you in thought, word, and deed; to treasure you and your heart until the ending of the world; to love and desire you, wholly and completely and without restraint. For there is no other place I wish to rest than at your side; and nobody I would rather spend the rest of my days with. For I would rather share one lifetime with you than face all the ages of this world alone.’ 

She dipped her head, releasing a faint breath of relief, before steeling herself to repeat her vows again; but this time in the khuzdul that she had been so carefully and painstakingly learning. But even as the sharp, unfamiliar words slipped from her lips, and a susurration of whispers rippled suddenly around the hall, she found that she could not take her eyes from Thorin’s face. A tender, wondering joy seemed to fill him, brimming over and making tears spring unbidden from his eyes, to roll glimmering down his cheeks like drops of liquid diamond; and even as she spoke, Ithilrian could not help but bring up her free hand to wipe the tears from his cheeks with all the gentle care she could muster. 

‘Ithilrian,’ he murmured, once she had finished. It seemed to be the only word he could summon. His eyes were misted with emotion, staring up at her as though she was the most precious thing in all creation. Even old Balin looked a little teary-eyed, hastily clearing his throat as he shuffled his papers officiously. 

‘Thank you, Lady Ithilrian,’ he said; and if the old dwarf’s voice was a little hoarser than usual, then she wasn’t going to mention it. ‘Now then, laddie; I mean, King Thorin. Your turn.’ 

‘Indeed.’ Thorin cleared his throat carefully, before speaking in a low, silken rumble that sent shivers down Ithilrian’s spine. ‘I, Thorin Oakenshield, do swear to treasure you, Ithilrian Tinnulenath, until the end of my days,’ he began. ‘Yours is the light by which my soul has been forged anew; you are my sun, my moon, and all of my stars. Wherever you go, so too shall I. I would walk with you to the ends of the earth and back again; to the heavens themselves, if you asked it of me.’ He paused, a gentle smile spreading over his face as he gazed up at her, with such open adoration in his eyes that Ithilrian feared her heart might break. ‘I swear to love and to cherish you,’ he continued slowly. ‘To share in your fears, as well as your joys; to tend to you in safety and in danger; through the darkness and into the light. Wherever life may lead us, I shall be at your side. This I swear to you, upon the bones of the earth itself.’ 

He paused, inclining his head formally. Ithilrian squeezed his hand lightly, reassuringly, as the dwarf took a deep, steadying breath; but Thorin had not yet finished. Slowly, deliberately, in a voice that occasionally trembled but did not falter, he repeated his vows back to her: but in perfectly spoken sindarin. Ithilrian felt her heart twist painfully in her chest at the sound of his voice, soft as velvet yet powerful as thunder, running hotly through her like a river of molten gold as he spoke the words in her ancient tongue. Joy mingled with astonishment inside her, making delighted tears spring to her eyes and roll freely down her cheeks.

‘Thorin,’ she murmured softly, once he had finished. ‘My heart.’ 

‘Your heart,’ he replied quietly, raising his hand to carefully wipe away her tears, just as she had done for him, with a slow, deliberate tenderness that made something bright and sharp and golden well up inside her. 

‘That’s… that’s excellent. Well, then. Let’s seal this union, shall we?’ said Balin, coughing lightly, before producing a pair of betrothal beads. As she reached out to take one, Ithilrian noticed that they were remarkably similar to the one Thorin had given her in Beorn’s hall, what seemed like half a lifetime ago. Carefully, with hands that were still shaking slightly, she threaded her bead onto one of Thorin’s braids, sealing it in place with a faint click, before holding still and allowing her beloved to reciprocate. His hands were trembling too as he fumbled slightly with her braid, fastening it just beneath her betrothal bead. The intricate clasp snapped fast; and at the look on Thorin’s face, Ithilrian felt her heart give another painful twist. _This is it,_ she realized. _It is done. We are bound._

‘Right then!’ Balin rubbed his hands together delightedly. ‘Now that the vows have been exchanged, and thus sealed with the gift of beads, it gives me great joy to declare you husband and wife. May your days together be long, filled with happiness, and…’ His voice trailed off, drowned out by the sudden roar of cheering that rose from the crowds around the hall. But the old dwarf did not seem to mind. He simply chuckled, took a pace back, and bowed. ‘Signing the documents can come in just a moment,’ he added drily, winking at Thorin. ‘I believe it’s now customary to kiss your new bride…?’ 

Thorin needed no further encouragement. He utterly ignored the ribald whoops and whistles that accompanied the cheering and applause that reverberated throughout the hall, choosing instead to reach out, sweeping Ithilrian clean off her feet and into his arms. The slender elf felt featherlight in his grasp, and her grey eyes were shining as he bent his head, dipping down to take her mouth in a tender, passionate kiss that sent wave upon wave of sensation rippling through him as she reached up, twining her fingers through his hair, sighing softly against his mouth as he kissed the very breath from her. 

‘Durin’s beard,’ he heard Balin mutter behind them. ‘Steady on, laddie. We’ve a whole day to get through yet!’ 

Ithilrian laughed aloud, safe within the assured strength of her husband’s grasp, wrapping her arms around his neck and nuzzling her head into his long fall of silken hair. ‘It has been a long wait,’ she murmured, her lips brushing against the soft skin of his throat, feeling him shiver slightly at her caress. ‘But this has been worth every second, my heart.’ 

‘Agreed,’ rumbled Thorin. ‘I never thought… never dared to hope, for so long…’ he broke off, unable to find any further words, dipping in for another kiss before depositing her gently back on her feet. ‘We should go up to the thrones,’ he added, inclining his head forwards, before offering Ithilrian his arm. ‘They are waiting with the new crowns.’ 

‘Of course.’ Ithilrian could not help but beam as she walked, arm in arm with Thorin, up to the raised platform where not just one, but a pair of thrones had been set. She and Thorin both took their seats, as Fili and Kili stepped forwards. Each held an open casket; and within was a matching pair of crowns. Thorin’s was by far the larger and heavier one, forged in the traditional dwarven style, yet still with a graceful sweeping elegance to it that was decidedly elven in places. Large, glimmering sapphires had been set all around the gleaming silverwork, picked out here and there with glittering bright white diamonds. Likewise, Ithilrian’s crown was silver, and studded with sapphires and diamonds; but it was far smaller and lighter than Thorin’s, designed to blend the flowing, intricate elven style with the harder, more geometric dwarven lines. Ithilrian felt her jaw drop at the sight of it. The dwarven smiths were truly masters of their art. It was far, far more beautiful than she had expected. 

‘Well now, this is a fine occasion indeed. Really, I’m so very pleased for you both.’ A familiar voice interrupted her thoughts; for there, stepping out of the shadows beside Fili and Kili, stood Gandalf. The old wizard was still wearing his habitual grey robes, but was smirking delightedly like a cat with a bowl of cream. 

‘Mithrandir!’ she breathed. _‘Mae g’ovannen!_ I had no idea you were still in Erebor. I thought you had been gone this past month.’ 

‘And so I have been,’ chuckled the wizard. ‘I had some small business matters to attend. But now I have returned; and not a moment too soon, it would seem.’ 

Thorin reached out and took Ithilrian’s hand, squeezing it lightly. ‘I thought it appropriate that Gandalf should be the one to crown us,’ he rumbled. ‘Since I have him to thank for setting me on the path to Erebor to begin with.’ 

‘Indeed.’ Ithilrian nodded, delighted. ‘I can think of nobody better.’ She held her breath as, one by one, Gandalf lifted the crowns from the safety of their boxes, and placed them carefully upon their heads. 

‘Now come the days of the King and Queen Under the Mountain!’ he said, stepping back and bowing. ‘May they be blessed,’ he added fondly, his grey eyes twinkling. 

Ithilrian nodded, her throat suddenly too tight to speak as a roar of noise swept through the hall once more. 

_‘All hail, King Thorin! Hail, Queen Ithilrian! Long live the Queen! Long live the King!’_

The shouts echoed throughout the entire mountain; but luckily, the dwarves did not linger too long on ceremony. Now that the wedding was done, and the formal coronation held, attention was turned swiftly towards celebrating. Food was brought out swiftly to the long, low tables that lined the great hall, as well as servers bearing trays of drinks. Toasts were made to the royal couple, who chose to leave their high thrones as quickly as possible, coming to sit at a table alongside their loyal Company as, without any further ado, the feasting commenced. 

It was a day filled with revelry. Food and drink were in plentiful supply; and over the many hours that followed, elves and men and dwarves alike celebrated together. Tales were told, songs were sung, and more than once half the hall descended into a loud, chaotic food fight that had Ithilrian laughing so hard she could barely breathe. Even the Company joined in, with Bilbo actively encouraging a reprise of the song they had sung in Bag End so very long ago, using his fork to conduct the singers with an air of great importance. 

_‘Blunt the knives, bend the forks,_  
_Smash the bottles and burn the corks…’_

Thorin had been utterly bewildered, having arrived at Bag End too late to witness the chaos that Bilbo’s dining room had descended into; but nevertheless, he had laughed along with the others, one hand drumming on the table in time to the music, the other holding onto Ithilrian’s hand. He had been holding it all evening; and even as the last strains of the song died away, to be replaced with cheering and applause, he did not let her go. 

_He has changed so much,_ she thought fondly, watching the light sparkling in his eyes as he laughed and smiled more freely than she had ever seen before. _I remember when he was so grim and brooding; when he would barely offer me a kind word, let alone a smile. Now look at him._ She felt joy bubbling up within her at the thought. _He is truly happy,_ she realized. She swallowed hard as he turned his bright, warm gaze upon her, willing back the tears that prickled at the corners of her eyes. 

‘Ithilrian?’ he said gently, fixing her with a questioning stare. ‘What are you thinking?’ 

She smiled and shook her head. ‘I have wished you joy ever since I met you,’ she murmured, leaning in so that her words would be for his ears alone. ‘It heals my heart now to see you in bliss.’ 

He tightened his hold on her hand. ‘It is entirely your doing,’ he replied softly. ‘Without you, none of this would have come to pass.’ He raised his free hand, running it tenderly down the line of her cheek before leaning in to nuzzle her gently with his nose. ‘I love you,’ he murmured. ‘I cannot seem to say it enough, Ithilrian. Not even if I lived to be a thousand years old.’ 

~

The celebrations lasted long into the night. The mountain rang with the sound of the festivities, even as the moon rose and the stars began to peep through the veiling clouds, which were soon swiftly dispersed by a strong westerly breeze. Many of the gathered elves, dwarves and men chose to stay in the hall until dawn, drinking and dancing the night away with every fresh tankard of ale. 

Not so Ithilrian and Thorin. After the sun had set, and the wine had been flowing freely for several hours, the royal couple had been able to make their escape. Ithilrian put forth a little of her power, concealing herself and her lover from the eyes of the revelers as they slipped unnoticed through the merry crowds, out of the great hall and into the relative calm of the winding corridors. It did not take them long to reach the uppermost tier of the citadel. Thorin was leading Ithilrian back to the _Madtubirzûl_ suite: now officially named the Queen’s Chambers. 

‘Alone at last,’ murmured Ithilrian, as the great doors swung closed behind them. The lock snicked into place; and even before Thorin could turn around she had wrapped her arms around him, drawing him tightly into her chest, leaning down to nuzzle into his mane of midnight hair. ‘Thorin,’ she breathed softly. ‘How I have missed being close to you.’ 

‘As have I,’ replied Thorin, shifting slightly so that he could turn, and bury his head in her hair in turn. ‘Ithilrian…’ 

‘Hush,’ she said softly. ‘It is all right, my heart. I am here.’ 

‘I know.’ He pulled back, smiling up at her wonderingly. ‘Wife,’ he said quietly. ‘My wife: now by dwarf law, as well as elven. Truly, I have been blessed.’ 

‘As have I.’ Ithilrian smiled, a mischievous twinkle appearing in her eyes. Before Thorin could blink she had tightened her arms around him, summoning her strength and lifting him bodily off the ground, before spinning to deposit him on the large, four-poster bed, brushing aside the canopied curtains with an impatient wave of her hand. 

‘Durin’s beard,’ mumbled Thorin, gazing up at her in astonishment. ‘I had no idea you could lift me so easily. What other secrets have you been hiding?’ 

‘That would be telling, my love,’ she replied, grinning as she ran a gentle hand over his hair. ‘But it is good to know that even after all this time, I may still surprise you.’ 

All further words were lost as she leaned down, capturing her husband’s lips in a gentle kiss, which swiftly turned into something bright and hot and urgent. ‘Thorin,’ she murmured, her hands beginning to tremble, her voice thick with desire. ‘Come to me, husband.’ 

‘At your service,’ he replied hoarsely. It did not take long for him to shrug off his robes, leaving them in an unceremonious heap on the floor. Bare to the waist, he reached for her; and Ithilrian found herself unable to tear her eyes away from the burnished beauty of his skin in the firelight; the way the muscles rippled and flexed beneath as he reached towards her, sweeping her off her feet and onto the bed alongside him. She reached up to trace the curve of his bicep. _What strength lies hidden beneath this flesh and sinew,_ her inner thought whispered. _Strength enough to conquer kingdoms._ But her thoughts came only dimly, fighting through the white-hot surge of desire that was flooding through her veins. 

He reached for her, his hands gentle, his eyes sparkling eagerly as he began slowly to ease the gown from her shoulders, tracing the line of her collarbone with his thumb as he did so.

‘How in Durin’s name do I get you out of this thing?’ he rumbled; and Ithilrian was forced to laugh at the frustration in his voice. 

‘With care; and with patience, my love,’ she replied playfully, watching him frown as he ran gentle fingers over her bodice, searching for hidden lacing to undo. Carefully she guided his fingers to the secret clasps at the side of her dress, allowing his dexterous fingers to unfasten them one by one. 

‘Finally,’ he breathed, as the gown gaped freely, and he was able to easily slide it from her shoulders. But barely had it begun to fall when Ithilrian’s gentle hand stayed his movement. 

‘What is it?’ he asked, glancing up at her, surprised to see the solemnity in her grey eyes. ‘What is wrong?’ 

‘Thorin…’ she hesitated, her hands running over his, unwilling for a moment to let him see: to finally observe the mess of scars that still covered her upper body. ‘You recall what I told you?’ she said finally. ‘That I would not look as I did before; at least, for some time?’ 

‘I remember,’ replied Thorin, his voice a low, comforting rumble. ‘And I seem to remember telling you not to have any fears on that account. Come, Ithilrian. Let me look at you. I have waited far too long for this day.’ 

With a single sigh, Ithilrian nodded. She released his hands, allowing them to continue their downward slide, tugging the thin fabric off her shoulders, pulling it down so that the dress pooled around her waist, revealing her pale skin and full, curvaceous breasts. Her heart beat swiftly at the sight of his expression; and for a moment she half-expected him to pull back, horrified by the extent of the injuries she had suffered. But that moment swiftly passed. 

‘You’re beautiful,’ he breathed, looking upon her with such a tender, loving expression that the breath hitched in her throat. ‘By Mahal, how is it that you came to care for me; for me, of all creatures upon this earth?’ He reached out, allowing one finger to drift down the long, silvery-white line of the scar that ran from her breastbone all the way down to her navel; the place where the healers had opened her up, in order to fix the damage to her shattered ribcage. ‘So beautiful, and so very brave,’ he murmured softly. ‘I shall never forget the sight of you like this, my heart. Event though your scars will fade, and eventually disappear: still, they are badges of honor in my eyes. Still I remember how you threw yourself at my mortal enemy; how willing you were to sacrifice your life for mine. I shall never forget, Ithilrian. Never.’ 

‘I believe you,’ she replied, the words catching painfully in her throat. ‘Thorin, _a’maelamin._ Thank you.’ 

‘For what?’ he looked up at her, surprised. 

‘For everything,’ she replied simply. ‘For believing in me, when all around us seemed dark and filled with doubt. For allowing me into your life; and into your heart.’ 

Thorin could not speak. The weight of emotion in the silver elf’s words struck him to the core. So he chose not to waste any more words; and simply leaned forwards, kissing her lips and then her neck, before working his way down towards her breasts. Tenderly he nuzzled at the soft swell of silken flesh, before pressing his lips to the pale tracery of scars, kissing them reverently, before drawing back and tugging further at her gown, pulling it over her hips, allowing it to fall in a pool of shimmering white at her feet. 

‘Ithilrian,’ he murmured wonderingly, her name the only word that came easily to his lips. Her skin gleamed golden in the flickering light, and her long hair fell in wave upon wave of unbound silver, smooth and cool against the heat of his hand as he reached out to run tender fingers over her flesh, delighting in the silken smoothness that met his fingertips as she shivered softly beneath his touch. 

‘Thorin,’ she breathed, stretching out languidly to wrap her long arms around him, drawing him close. ‘Come, my love. You are still wearing far too many clothes for my liking.’ 

She watched, a slow smile spreading over her face, as Thorin hastily divested himself of his remaining clothing. She allowed her hands to roam freely over his torso, taking in the swell of muscle beneath his skin, joying in the strength of his heartbeat, before trailing a single hand down the soft line of hair that ran from his chest down to his navel, disappearing into his groin. She felt, rather than heard, the soft groan he gave as her fingers moved; and at the same time she could feel his fingers tracing the same path, drifting over the taut lines of her abdominal muscles, before sliding over her hipbone, finally reaching the smooth triangle of flesh at the apex of her thighs. 

‘Thorin,’ she repeated; but the word came out as a single, choked gasp of longing, as his fingers probed further, sinking into her core. No other words would come as he leaned over her, pressing her gently but firmly back onto the mattress, his hair falling around them in a curtain of silken darkness as he laid fierce, passionate kisses to her mouth and throat as he did so. Willingly she succumbed to his pressure, reclining flat upon the mattress, allowing him to part her legs with a gentle hand. 

‘The night we spent in Laketown.’ His voice was a hoarse rumble, slightly muffled by the press of his lips against her neck, as his fingers roved, seeking that tight, hot bud of nerves that made her shiver to her soul. ‘Our first night together. Our elven wedding. You would not let me tend to you as I wished; and I am glad of it, for the memory of our bonding is branded into my heart forever. But now… now, we have more time. Will you let me…? I mean, may I…?’ 

Ithilrian sighed softly. ‘Do whatever you will, my love,’ she breathed. ‘Hold nothing back.’

‘Ithilrian.’ He groaned lightly at her words. ‘You have no idea what you do to me.’ He raised his head once more, pressing a tentative kiss to the shell of her ear, before taking the delicately pointed tip between his lips and suckling gently. 

Ithilrian gasped, suddenly unable to reply, as a wave of gentle pleasure rippled through her, bone-deep and warming as the summer sun. She felt, rather than heard, his triumphant laughter as she nestled more closely into him, delighting in the warmth of his bare skin against hers, as he pressed forwards again, bolder his time, teasing the dainty point with his tongue. One hand remained between her legs, soothing her with slow, gentle strokes, while the other rose to caress her breast. She felt herself shudder beneath him, her body moving almost against her will, arcing up unbidden into the heat of his caresses, feeling a sweet, hot sensation building inside of her, until with a low moan she felt her body reach its first peak, shuddering and writhing beneath his touch, as a wave of pleasure flooded through her veins. She seemed to become boneless beneath his hands, soft and pliant as a tender young plant; and at that, Thorin loosed a low rumble of satisfied laughter that had her quaking with anticipation. 

‘My brightest of stars,’ he murmured, withdrawing his mouth from her ear. ‘Elenion ancalima. Never shall I tire of seeing you like this.’ He tried, but failed, to conceal a grin. From her prone position on the bed, Ithilrian matched him smile for smile, pushing herself up onto her elbows, her eyes shining. 

‘You look as prideful as a cat, my lord Thorin,’ she murmured playfully. 

‘Hmpf.’ Thorin leaned forwards once more, nuzzling his nose to hers with gentle tenderness. ‘You still call me that,’ he added softly. ‘Why?’ 

Ithilrian shrugged, allowing Thorin to press her slowly back onto the mattress. ‘I have always called you that,’ she replied quietly. ‘In sindarin or westron, ever since first I met you. My heart yearned towards you; but I dared not speak of it.’ She gazed up at him, willing him to understand.

‘Wait,’ he said softly, hesitating above her, before pressing a swift kiss to her brow. ‘So every time you called me that, what you were really saying was…?’ 

‘I love you.’ Ithilrian’s voice was the merest whisper; yet still it seemed to resonate around the chamber. ‘I could not say it aloud; yet my heart cried the words every time you spoke quietly with me at our campfires at night; every time I caught a glimpse of that rare, precious smile of yours. So please forgive me, _hîr vuin._ Old habits are the hardest to break.’ 

‘I love you,’ echoed Thorin, his voice hoarse. ‘I could say it a thousand times over, and it would be nowhere near enough.’ 

She ran gentle hands over him, tracing the line of his powerful jaw. ‘You do not need to say it,’ she murmured. ‘I can see it in your eyes every time you look at me.’ Her fingers stroked the silk scruff of his beard. ‘I always wondered what it would be like to kiss you,’ she whispered. ‘At first I feared your beard would be too prickly, too bristly to kiss for any length of time.’ She leaned in, taking his mouth slowly, languidly, delighting in the feel of his quickening breathing as he pressed himself into her. ‘Never have I been more wrong,’ she added, as he laughed softly. 

‘That is fortunate indeed,’ he replied, his voice laced with mirth, before moving down her body, pressing warming kisses down the column of her throat, lingering lovingly over her breasts, trailing down her belly, before moving aside to tentatively press his mouth to her inner thigh. Ithilrian found the breath catching in her throat when she realized what he was planning to do. Already she was molten beneath his touch, shivering at every gentle caress. She watched as he shifted so as to be resting between her legs, the lamplight gilding his skin like gold. 

‘Ithilrian,’ he breathed, kissing her again, higher this time, his beard a rough silken rasp, his breath warm against the smooth skin of her thigh. ‘You tremble for me,’ he murmured. ‘Are you cold? Afraid?’ 

‘Neither, my heart,’ whispered Ithilrian. She quivered like a plucked harpstring at his touch. He bent his head to kiss her again, brushing tentative lips over the skin at the apex of her thighs, before dipping down to lap, slowly and rhythmically, at the tender bud of flesh between her legs; and at that, any words Ithilrian had been about to speak were swept utterly aside by the wet, velvet heat of his tongue. Never before had she experienced such sensations. She found that both her hands had latched onto the sheets, gripping them tightly as she loosed long, soft moan of sheer pleasure. From somewhere between her legs, Thorin let out a low growl of satisfaction; which only served to send even more shivers dancing across her skin, as the vibrations of his glorious midnight voice passed right through her. She gazed up at the ceiling, her eyelids fluttering, trying in vain to maintain some control over her breathing as Thorin continued, alternating between slow, rhythmic sweeps of his tongue and swift, darting licks that made her gasp sharply and cry out; until she reached her peak once more, her eyes rolling back in her head, stars glimmering brightly in her vision for an instant as wave after wave of pleasure crashed over her like the breaking of a great wave, and she cried his name again and again, a cry of pure ecstasy spoken to the stars. 

For Thorin, the experience was no less pleasurable. From the moment he had pressed his lips against her; had finally allowed himself to taste her, fully and deeply; he had been lost. Never before had he tasted anything of such rich and intoxicating sweetness. He pressed his mouth more firmly against her, allowing his tongue to flick out, curling around that tight, swollen bud of nerves, drinking in the warm wetness that seemed to flow from her like nectar, like honeyed wine, like the sweetest ambrosia imaginable. He lost himself utterly in the sensation: lapping, suckling, and kissing by turns, closing his eyes and reveling in her sighs and moans of pleasure. He could feel her writhing against him, her inner muscles pulsing erratically, as her cries grew deeper and more urgent. He raised his hands to grasp at her hips, lifting her up towards his mouth, the better to taste her. He curled his tongue deep inside her, as far as he could reach, striving towards her core; and at that he felt her break and shatter around him, as pulses of pleasure seemed to shake her to her soul, her hips stuttering helplessly upwards. Still he did not relent, even as she quaked and cried out beneath his touch. He kept going, lost in a haze of desire, ignoring the growing urgency of his swollen erection as it pressed almost painfully against the mattress. He allowed his tongue to flick up and down the length of her entrance, drinking down her sweetness before pressing slow, lascivious kisses to her skin, lapping carefully at that tender bud of flesh; and after that, it only seemed like moments before she reached yet another peak, quivering helplessly at his touch, her thighs locking around the back of his head, pressing him ever closer. 

‘Thorin,’ she gasped, again and again, quivering helplessly, before arching her back and stuttering half-formed words in broken sindarin. At the sound of his name he drew back, shaking his head slightly like one coming out of a daze, wiping his mouth and beard on the back of his hand. Her cheeks were delightfully flushed, and her breasts heaved as she panted, gasping for air, her long slender limbs still quivering from the aftershocks.

‘My love,’ she murmured, reaching up to cup his face with a trembling hand, before wrapping both arms tightly around his chest, seeking his warm, comforting strength. ‘I am halfway to the stars already,’ she breathed. ‘Come, Thorin. Let me take you the rest of the way.’ 

She pressed her shoulder hard against the bed, levering them over; and with a grunt of surprise Thorin landed on his back. He opened his mouth as if to speak, but Ithilrian deigned not to give him the chance. She took his mouth fiercely, possessively, trying to pour all of her fierce, wonderful joy into him; to tell him without words how much he meant to her. He seemed to understand, responding in kind, gasping gently when she straddled him. She trailed her fingers downwards, gliding them over the taut lines of muscle in his belly, threading them through the soft dark hair at his groin, before curling her hand around his swollen shaft. He groaned loudly at her touch, seeming unable to stop his hips from twitching upwards, pushing against her hand, desperate for her caresses. With gentle surety she held onto him, positioning herself carefully; before with one languid, downward thrust of her hips she took him deeply inside of her. He shuddered, his eyelids fluttering as he clenched his jaw, gritting out her name. 

‘Ithilrian,’ he gasped, as she raised her hips once more, setting a slow, languid pace. ‘Ithilrian, I want… I need…’ 

‘I know,’ she murmured, increasing her pace, as Thorin began stammer fragments of khuzdul, the breath coming swiftly and erratically from his lungs. He seemed barely able to form words, his breathing punctuated by low groans and sharp gasps as she took him right to the brink of pleasure, grinding her hips down upon him as he bucked up into her, his hands white-knuckled around her hips, his gaze fixed firmly on her as she swayed above him, her silver hair a shimmering curtain around them both, blocking out the rest of the world. 

‘Come with me,’ she whispered, leaning over him to press her lips against his ear, feeling the heat rising within her core once more. ‘Allow yourself to let go; come with me.’ 

‘I… I’m…’ Thorin gasped hoarsely, thrusting helplessly upwards as her walls of muscle tightened around him, bringing him crashing over the peak of pleasure as she shattered around him, the breath sighing from her lips, his name in her mouth, his flesh beneath her hands. For one bright, shining moment, Ithilrian felt her spirit lift from the strength of the orgasm as it shuddered through her body. As she felt herself drift into the darkness of the star-strewn night, she reached out to grasp Thorin, taking him with her; using all her strength to lift him up and into the light, offering him that same glimpse of eternity. For a moment that lasted forever they hung, entwined together at the peak of bliss; before Ithilrian let go, allowing them both to come crashing down into their bodies, trembling against one another as the orgasm swept over them both like an avalanche. 

‘Ithil… Ithilrian… I’m…’ Thorin was gasping for breath beneath her. Carefully she pulled away, levering herself off him, rolling over to lie beside him on the bed and trying to calm her own frantic, ragged breathing. 

‘Thorin,’ she murmured, reaching out one hand and laying it flat upon his chest, feeling the swift pounding of his heart. ‘Husband.’ 

He levered himself up onto one elbow to gaze at her, his blue eyes wide and wondering. ‘Wife,’ he said simply, raising a hand to lift a tendril of hair away from her face with gentle, loving care. ‘Wife.’ With a low groan he pulled himself up, resting his back against the pillows, before opening one arm and allowing Ithilrian to curl herself into his warmth, her head on his chest. She could feel the curve of his smile against her skin as he pressed a soft, welcoming kiss to her brow. But at that tender touch, sudden shyness swept over her.

‘I never would have imagined this,’ she murmured softly, gently butting her head against his broadly muscled chest. ‘When first we met, not in any of my wildest thoughts did I believe you could grow to care for me; much less that you would one day name me wife.’ 

Thorin huffed in response, carefully stroking her hair, beginning to comb it out with his fingers. ‘Never did I believe that you might have feelings for me,’ he replied softly. ‘You kept your secret well, Ithilrian; more’s the pity. Had I known sooner…’ 

She shook her head slowly. ‘It matters not.’ She pressed a kiss to his skin, burnished like gold in the light of the glimmering lamps, leaning into the gentle tug and pull of his fingers as he threaded them slowly through her mass of silver hair. 

‘You are becoming drowsy again,’ he murmured, a ripple of laughter running through his words. ‘I have noticed this seems to keep happening when I have my hands in your hair.’ 

‘Mmm.’ Ithilrian laughed softly. ‘Your touch is hypnotic, _a’maelamin._ But I must confess, I have always loved having my hair combed. When I was a child it was the one thing that would always send me to sleep, when I was feeling wild and restless.’ 

Thorin snorted softly. ‘I suspect you had your hair combed often, then,’ he replied quietly, his fingers still questing through her long tumbling locks. ‘I shall have to remember this for future nights.’ He leaned down to press another kiss to the top of her head. ‘We probably should both sleep,’ he added. ‘It has been a long and eventful day.’ 

‘Indeed.’ Ithilrian glanced over towards the door, where their twin crowns had been swiftly abandoned upon entering. ‘Tomorrow, our real work begins,’ she added ruefully. ‘But not tonight, Thorin. Not right now. Right now, we have this.’ 

‘Mmm,’ he rumbled in agreement, his chest reverberating beautifully with the deep, comforting sound. ‘Wait here,’ he added, shifting aside to step carefully out of bed, swiftly dousing the lights. Ithilrian sat up and yawned widely, before squirming beneath the coverlet. She watched with half-lidded eyes as Thorin put out the final lamp. 

‘Luckily, I have excellent night vision,’ she murmured, watching him fondly. ‘I need no candle to guide me through the dark.’

‘Neither do I,’ replied Thorin, pulling back the sheets and sliding into bed beside her, not even bothering to search for his discarded undergarments. Ithilrian reached out an arm, inviting him close; and it appeared he needed no further encouragement. Within an instant he had nestled into her warmth, resting his head on her breast with a contented sigh, sliding one arm over her stomach to drape his hand over her slender waist. 

‘I love you,’ he mumbled sleepily, his breath warm against her skin. Ithilrian smiled into the darkness, her eyes brimming with silent tears. 

‘Thorin, my heart,’ she murmured softly ‘I love you too.’

~


	51. The Passing of an Age

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which time passes within the Lonely Mountain; and Ithilrian makes good on a promise.

And so the days began to pass swiftly beneath the mountain. Ithilrian found her new duties not nearly as onerous as she feared; but despite that, she and Thorin were kept incredibly busy. The repair work was ongoing all throughout the winter, as all three races fought to make Erebor safe to tread once more, and undo the damage the dragon had wrought. Supplies still arrived regularly from the Woodland Realm; which was fortunate indeed, as Erebor’s population was already beginning to swell. 

For as winter paled into spring, fresh caravans of travellers began to arrive from both the Iron Hills and Ered Luin, bringing those dwarves eager to resettle Erebor, and live once more in the ancestral heart of the ancient dwarven kingdoms. Thorin had his hands full settling the newcomers, and coordinating with the new Guild of Engineers to ascertain which parts of Erebor’s citadels were both safe and habitable, and which needed further work; while Ithilrian was kept busy trying to re-negotiate their trade contracts with the Woodland Realm, as well as setting up new ones with the Iron Hill dwarves. The fresh influx of folk into the mountain meant more mouths to feed; and Erebor was still not self-sufficient. 

The delegation from Lórien left shortly after the wedding, and it was with a sorrowful heart that Ithilrian finally bade her father farewell. They embraced carefully before the front gates, which were still under construction at that time; silver-haired father and silver-eyed daughter, gripping one another’s hands tightly in the wintry morning sun. 

‘I have the strangest feeling,’ murmured Ithilrian. ‘I fear this may be the last time I set eyes on you, _ada.’_

‘Perhaps. Perhaps not. Only time may tell us that.’ Celeborn smiled sadly, pausing to touch his forehead briefly to his daughter’s. ‘I shall miss you, little one. More than you know, I deem.’ He hesitated, glancing between her and Thorin, who had also come down to the gates to bid official farewell to the elven party. ‘Step forwards, Son of Thrain,’ added Celeborn quietly. ‘For I would speak with you both ere I depart.’ 

Thorin frowned slightly, closing the distance between then to stand beside Ithilrian. The elven lord inclined his head a little. ‘I know it is not your custom, but we of the Golden Wood give parting gifts at times like these,’ he said softly. ‘Small they may seem; yet perhaps they will be of assistance to you in the days that are to come.’ Reaching inside his robe, Celeborn drew out a slender package wrapped in a fine grey cloth, placing it delicately in Thorin’s hands. ‘This is for you, son of Durin,’ he said quietly. ‘I hope you never have need of it; but that is a foolish and idle thought for this age. So I shall simply say: use it well, and wisely.’ 

‘Thank you.’ The dwarf drew aside the wrappings to reveal an elven hunting knife. The sheath had been crafted from soft grey leather, and embroidered with a series of entwining silver leaves. The blade itself was curved, razor-edged, and embossed with a scroll of elvish script running down the knife’s outer edge. 

‘It was forged long ago, for a darker age than this,’ said Celeborn quietly, as Thorin drew the knife slowly from its sheath. The blade glinted in the light. ‘You already wield an ancient sword of high renown, King Oakenshield. I pray that this serves you equally well in the battles you are fated to face.’ 

‘I… do not know what to say,’ replied Thorin, staring up at the Lord of Lórien, meeting the elf’s grey gaze steadily. ‘May you travel safely through the wilds until you reach your home once more,’ he added. ‘I thank you for your gift to me.’ He glanced sideways at Ithilrian. ‘Thank you,’ he repeated. ‘For everything.’

Celeborn smiled faintly. ‘There is no need for thanks. After all, I have nothing greater to give than the gift you already bear.’ He raised one hand to his neck. Thorin mimicked the motion, touching the glimmering jewel that still sat proudly at the hollow of his throat; a perpetual reminder of the love Ithilrian had borne for him for so long. 

‘As for you, my daughter, I have only a little gift.’ Celeborn turned towards Ithilrian, reaching into his robes once more. The package he drew out was barely half the size of Ithilrian’s hand. The silver elf dipped her head in thanks, eyeing the object curiously. 

_‘Ni lassui, ada,’_ replied Ithilrian, before pulling away the wrapping. But when she realized what it was that she held, the breath caught in her throat. It was a locket, wrought from silver and designed to appear like a small book, covered in intricate scrolling patterns with a small clasp at one side.

‘You cannot give me this,’ she breathed, looking up at her father bewilderedly. ‘It is yours, and _ammë’s._ I cannot take this from you.’ 

Celeborn shook his head, smiling. ‘It was your mother’s will that you should have it,’ he replied softly. ‘She knows how much it means to you, Ithilrian.’ He took her hands, closing them over the gift and pressing them gently. _‘Nai tiruvantel ar varyuvantel i Valar tielyanna nu vilya,’_ he added softly. ‘Farewell, Twilight Star. Until we meet again.’ 

‘Farewell,’ echoed Ithilrian, wide-eyed as her father turned away. She remained utterly still for several minutes, watching the departing elven party until they turned a corner and disappeared from view.

‘What is that?’ said Thorin curiously, laying one hand on Ithilrian’s forearm. ‘What did he give you?’ 

‘It is memory,’ replied Ithilrian quietly, turning the silver case over in her hands. ‘Something of little value to others, perhaps; but precious to me nonetheless.’ 

Thorin nodded slowly, eyeing the locket with sudden trepidation. Ithilrian’s mood seemed to have shifted. Her grey eyes were clouded and pensive, as she turned the gleaming silver object over and over, her fingers lingering over the clasp as though she could not quite bear to unhasp it.

‘Will you not open it?’ Thorin asked. ‘Or is there nothing inside to see?’ 

Ithilrian smiled. ‘Not here,’ she replied, glancing over her shoulder. ‘Not before so many watching eyes. Perhaps later.’ 

Thorin nodded. ‘Very well.’ He offered her his arm to return to the mountain, and their duties; but as the day wore on, he kept a close eye on his wife’s mood. Serene she appeared to all other eyes, conducting her affairs with grace as usual; but every now and then her eyes seemed downcast, and her hands would clench tightly around the slender package, as though some deep emotion had her in its grip. It wasn’t until the day was done, and they were both in their chambers once more, that he ventured to ask her about it. 

_‘Kurdûnuh,’_ he said softly, laying a tentative hand on the small of her back. ‘Please talk to me. You have been unhappy all day. Something is troubling you.’ 

Ithilrian glanced down at him, smiling fondly as she removed her crown with careful hands, placing it on the nightstand. ‘Your sight was always keen,’ she replied. ‘I am sorry if I appear distracted, my heart. My thoughts have been elsewhere for some little while.’ 

‘I noticed.’ Thorin nodded towards the package she still held in one slender hand. ‘Will it help you to speak of it?’ he added carefully. ‘I know some things are hard to share, Ithilrian. And if you have no wish to do so, then I will understand.’ 

Ithilrian shook her head. ‘You know me too well,’ she murmured. ‘But there is nothing I shall keep from you, Thorin. A simple thing, this may appear. Yet if _ammë_ willed me to have it, then it must have some bearing on the days that are yet before us. It is that meaning I have been struggling to discern.’ 

She lowered herself to sit at their table, pouring herself a small glass of wine before opening the wrappings and laying the locket before her. Thorin drew up his chair beside her, his curiosity piqued. 

‘This was made in Lothlórien, long ago,’ she said quietly. ‘A relic of days long since passed into memory.’ Slowly she unlatched the clasp, laying it open before him. Book-like, it folded out into four separate panels; and upon each of them was a small, exquisite portrait. Thorin caught his breath, suddenly understanding the change in Ithilrian’s mood. 

On the left were two tiny, perfect paintings of Ithilrian’s parents. The Lord Celeborn looked much as he had when Thorin had seen him last: stern yet smiling faintly, his smooth pale hair bound with a circlet of silver. Beside him was a picture of the Lady Galadriel, smiling warmly up at him; and upon her hair was a circlet of gold. But it was the other two paintings that captured Thorin’s attention.

‘That is you,’ he breathed, pointing to one of the miniatures. ‘Except you look… different. Younger.’ He glanced up at her, bewildered. ‘Elves do age, then?’ 

Ithilrian smiled sadly. ‘Yes. Differently to mortals, of course; but life takes its toll, even upon the Elder Folk.’ She tapped the portrait lightly. ‘This was painted long ago,’ she added. ‘I had barely come of age, and knew little of the world and its troubles.’ 

Thorin nodded slowly. The Ithilrian in the picture seemed almost alive, her silver hair unbound, her grey eyes bright and sparkling. A familiar fierce smile was upon her lips; and looking at it, he could almost hear the echo of her laughter. But his wife’s attention was not held by the portrait of herself; but rather, the one beside it. 

‘That is her,’ said Thorin slowly, unwilling to say the name aloud. ‘That is your sister.’ He did not recognize the elf that was staring up at him from the final panel; but Ithilrian’s gentle sigh left him in no doubt. Alike to Ithilrian she looked; yet at the same time utterly different in both appearance and demeanor. While Ithilrian took after their father in looks, her sister clearly favored their mother. A pale, heart-shaped face was surrounded by softly curling waves of golden hair, and a pair of wide blue eyes smiled out of the portrait with a sweet, almost heartbreaking innocence. 

‘Celebrían,’ breathed Ithilrian, closing her eyes momentarily. ‘The gentlest creature ever to walk this earth.’ She paused, glancing up at him hesitantly. ‘It has been so long,’ she added, her voice little more than a whisper. ‘So long since I laid eyes on her.’ She swallowed hard, fighting the sob that rose up in her throat. ‘I still miss her, _veleth nîn,’_ she whispered. ‘I miss her so much.’

‘I know.’ Thorin reached out to take her hand, engulfing her slender fingers with his far larger ones, leaning forward to press his forehead against hers in a tender, comforting gesture. She leaned into him with a gentle sigh, her eyes fluttering closed as a single, glimmering tear slid down her cheek. 

‘I am sorry,’ she murmured. ‘I have no desire to wallow in ancient grief: to relive bitter days long since passed. But I can remember her, Thorin. I remember her as though it were yesterday.’ 

‘And so you should,’ replied Thorin, lowering his voice to a low, comforting rumble. ‘I seem to recall you once told me that the ones we love never truly leave us: that they remain in our hearts for as long as we look for them. That is as true for me as it is for you.’ He paused, a flutter of fear rising in his chest. ‘Are you in pain?’ he asked quietly, remembering how she had described the agony of her sister’s passing; how since that day she had been fading, inch by inch as she traveled the wilds, her soul torn by grief. ‘Ithilrian, if this memory is hurting you…’ He made as if to stand, but Ithilrian’s gentle hand held him back. 

‘Stay,’ she murmured. ‘Do not leave.’ 

‘But…’ he hesitated, uncertain of what to say. ‘You are not still… fading?’ he asked, fumbling awkwardly over the words, his throat suddenly dry. ‘You said that you were, before... but not since I… since we, in Mirkwood… I mean, you aren’t still in danger?’ He swallowed hard, almost afraid of her reply, but determined to hear it nonetheless. ‘If you are falling sick, I would have you tell me,’ he added, his voice growing determined. ‘I will not lose you, Ithilrian. Not again.’ 

‘Peace,’ she replied softly, a warm smile suffusing her features; and that that sight, Thorin’s anxious heart fluttered with relief. ‘You worry too much,’ she added gently. ‘I told you I am healed; and it is the truth. I am whole once more. It is simply the echo of an old pain. It will pass.’ 

The breath left Thorin in a sigh of heartfelt relief. ‘Thank Mahal,’ he murmured, glancing down at the open locket once more. ‘But I do not understand why the Lady Galadriel wanted you to have this,’ he added, frowning. ‘While memory is all well and good, it seems to have brought you more grief than joy.’ 

Ithilrian squeezed his hand lightly. ‘I believe she meant it as a reminder,’ she said, smiling faintly once more. ‘Of the past, yes; but of the future too. I know well that the only time I shall see Celebrían again is when I pass into Valinor, after our days here are done. This gift serves as both encouragement, and warning. We must use what time we have with wisdom, lest it run out before we know it.’ 

Thorin nodded slowly. ‘That seems like the kind of advice I am growing to expect from your family,’ he replied drily. ‘For all that elves live forever, they seem very concerned with the passing of time. You’d think forever would be long enough for anybody.’ 

‘Would you?’ Ithilrian turned towards him, suddenly serious. ‘Immortality is both a gift and a curse, Thorin Oakenshield. I have watched men grow from babes in their mothers arms into mighty warriors, hale and hearty; only to wither almost before my eyes, turning to nothing but bones and dust. Could you bear to watch the lives of those you hold dear flicker before you, lasting no longer than the flame you strike on a match? To watch as everything changes, age by age; as cities and empires rise, only to crumble into ruin after the passing of a mere few centuries; until at last you grow bitter of the world, knowing in your heart that nothing will last forever?’ She broke off, a shadow seeming to pass momentarily over her features, her hands clenching as though in pain.

‘I’m sorry.’ Thorin swallowed hard, his throat suddenly tight, as the weight of Ithilrian’s years seemed to bear down heavily upon him. ‘I forget sometimes,’ he added quietly. ‘I forget the gulf of time that lies between us. But I do not envy your immortality, Ithilrian. Perhaps now I understand a little better why the elves tend to distance themselves from other folk.’ 

Ithilrian shook her head slowly, her gentle smile returning once more. ‘It matters not,’ she replied softly. ‘Forgive me, my heart. I am not yet weary of this world; I should not be speaking like this. I have had enough of doom and gloom for one day.’ She shook herself, as though attempting to physically slough off her previous melancholy. ‘Come, my heart,’ she added, her tone lighter. ‘Let us not dwell on such things. We should take joy in life while we still can. After all, the sun will still rise and set regardless. What we choose to do with the light while it’s here is up to us.’ She reached out, closing the locket with care, before taking Thorin’s hands in hers and drawing him close. 

‘That sounds like wisdom to me,’ replied Thorin gratefully, smiling as she wrapped her hands around his broad shoulders and buried her head in his hair with a gentle sigh. Reaching around with care, he slipped his hands beneath her legs, lifting her into his arms; and even though he had done it many times before, still he was amazed by her lightness every time. The slender elf weighed little more than a feather. 

‘Where are you taking me?’ she said, her voice muffled against his neck. 

‘To bed,’ he replied shortly, unable to prevent himself from smiling as she laughed softly in delight. 

‘Thank the Valar for practical dwarves,’ she murmured, nestling comfortably against him, nuzzling into his neck as he laid her carefully down. ‘Where would I be without you, my love?’

He blew out the candles before climbing in beside her. ‘Do not think on it,’ he rumbled in reply, as something warm and golden unfurled within him at the feel of her hands slipping up to unlace his tunic. ‘Tomorrow is a new day,’ he added, still feeling the need to reassure her. ‘A new dawn.’ 

‘Indeed.’ Ithilrian paused, leaning up on one elbow to gaze at him. ‘You speak more wisely than I at times,’ she added softly. ‘Truly, we are well matched, my heart. We may each have our own burdens to bear; but thank the Valar we do not have to bear them alone.’

~

And so the seasons began to pass beneath the mountain. Winter gradually loosened its hold upon the surrounding lands; but not before another group of elves had arrived from Lórien, bearing the gift that Ithilrian had promised the dwarven council before they had sworn their allegiance. A large crate was duly delivered, containing within a heap of soft, silvery-grey earth from the Gardens of Galadriel. Ithilrian was delighted; as was Bilbo, who had chosen to spend the winter in Erebor before travelling back to the Shire in fairer weather. As a gardener and lover of all growing things, he had insisted on being involved with the preparations that were swiftly made. 

‘How does it work?’ he asked curiously, peering over Ithilrian’s shoulder as she unlocked the crate with reverence. ‘Is it like farmyard manure, or a fertilizer?’ 

‘You could perhaps say that,’ replied Ithilrian with a smile, using her shoulder to lever open the lid. ‘It carries a powerful enchantment on it, which is linked to the power my mother wields.’ She nodded in satisfaction, hands on her hips. ‘There is more than enough here for Erebor,’ she added, delight clearly evident in her voice. ‘For Dale as well. Come the summer, these lands will be almost unrecognizable.’ 

Bilbo stood on tiptoe, peering inside eagerly. Within the crate was a heap of what looked like fine silver-grey dust, soft as sand and twinkling faintly in the light; and in the middle was a small seed, nut-like and smooth, its skin pale and gleaming. ‘What peculiar stuff!’ he muttered, reaching out to run his fingers tentatively through the earth. ‘I’ve never seen soil like it in all my days. And what is this?’ He picked up the nut, holding it to the light, inspecting it closely. 

‘That is a seed from a _mallorn_ tree,’ Ithilrian replied, smiling warmly. ‘They grew once in Valinor, but were spread by the elves and the men of Numenor, who loved their size and shapely beauty. But in this age, they grow only in Lothlórien, and it is for that reason the Golden Wood is so named, for in the summer they are decked with golden flowers, bright as the sun itself; and in the autumn, the leaves themselves turn to gold and do not fall.’

‘Well!’ Bilbo nodded delightedly, passing the seed back to Ithilrian. ‘How exciting! So, what should we do? There isn’t all that much here, you know. It’d barely cover my garden back in Bag End.’ 

‘It should be used sparingly, for every grain is of value,’ replied Ithilrian. ‘Come, we should set up a team to aid us in this endeavor. For I swore to Thorin that I would help his lands become fruitful once again; and that is a promise I have every intention of keeping.’ 

~

Eventually, it was done. With the aid of Bilbo, Bofur, and a small group of hand-picked volunteers, Ithilrian was able to evenly distribute the earth of Lothlórien around her lands. By special request to the Lord Thranduil, small sapling trees were brought down the river to Erebor, and planted around the valley. A grain of the precious soil was put at the roots of each of these, as well as being scattered sparingly over the once-lush pasture lands and fields to the south of the Lonely Mountain. The _mallorn_ seed Ithilrian took, and planted in the center of the ruins of Dale, where the burnt-out husk of a once-great tree had fallen. Reverently they moved the ancient giant to one side, before burying the tiny silver nut, swiftly before the snows could cover the land once again. 

All through the rest of the winter they waited. Bilbo was impatient to see the effects; and Ithilrian too, although she concealed it better than others. It became a common sight, to see the mountain’s resident hobbit trotting around the lands outside, heavily wrapped up against the bitter air, peering at the ground and muttering to himself. Always, his faithful Bofur accompanied him; whose merry laughter and occasional impromptu bursts of song brought a smile to the faces of those nearby. But no matter how eagerly Bilbo watched the ground for signs of flourishing life, or how hard Ithilrian hoped, there was little any of them could do but wait. 

Spring surpassed their wildest hopes. The fruit saplings from Mirkwood began to sprout and grow, with unforeseen strength and vigor; as though time were in a hurry and wished to make one year do for twenty. It was not long before all were heavily in bloom, promising a glut of fruit come autumn. The fields too sprang to life. No longer was Erebor surrounded by nothing but ashen, rock-strewn desolation. The places that had borne the brunt of the dragon’s fiery wrath were healed, putting forth fresh plant life from seeds that had long lain dormant in the barren earth, waiting only for the right nutrition to flourish; and in Dale, where the Lakemen had resettled, a beautiful young _mallorn_ sapling leapt up. It had smooth grey bark and long slender leaves that were green on top and silver beneath, and come April, it burst into a riot of golden flowers. It became known as the wonder of Dale, and was spoken of throughout the lands as the only _mallorn_ tree in Middle Earth outside of the Golden Wood. 

‘This… this is beyond belief,’ Bilbo had muttered, trotting around beneath the flourishing trees, staring upwards as though in a daze. ‘Ridiculous. Just imagine what a pinch of that soil could do for my tomatoes back home.’ 

‘Just imagine what it could do for your whole garden,’ Bofur had replied merrily, one arm slung casually around his hobbit’s shoulder. ‘You’d end up with flowers larger than the palm of your hand, and pumpkins bigger than you are. That’d be a sight to see, no two ways about it.’ 

Bilbo had nodded absentmindedly, mentally ticking off the various seeds he had sown over the past month. For while Erebor was in bloom, it had quickly become painfully apparent that dwarves were not natural gardeners. Luckily, the newly resettled Men of Dale, formerly the Men of Laketown, were ever eager to try their hands at something new; and had taken up the role of farmers with considerable enthusiasm. 

‘It’s only a short step from fishing to farming,’ Bard’s son Bain had said, when asked. ‘We used to live on a lake, so we farmed the waters. Now we live on the land, and so we’re farming the earth. It’s simple common sense, really.’ 

Under the guidance of Bilbo and the wood elves, and the caring hands of the Men of Dale, the fields around Erebor flourished and prospered. By autumn, Ithilrian was forced into a further re-negotiation of the mountain’s trade contracts, as they found that Erebor was finally able to feed its many mouths with considerable ease. Ithilrian had grumbled loudly about the extra paperwork; but inside, her heart had been singing. She had kept her promise to her husband. Erebor was thriving. 

It wasn’t only Ithilrian that was delighted. Everywhere within the mountain, a hum of expectation seemed to fill the air. The days were filled with bright sunshine and cooling rain, in due times and perfect balance; but there seemed to be something more. An air of richness, of growth, seemed to pervade the northern lands, a glimpse of beauty beyond that of simple mortal summers that flicker and pass upon this Middle Earth. When questioned about it, Ithilrian would simply smile and shrug her shoulders, saying neither yes or no every time she was asked whether the Valar had blessed their lands. Rumor ran rife throughout the mountain, as it always had; and it was not long before the ambassadors from the other dwarven kingdoms were positively clamoring to sign the treaties of loyalty and allegiance that Balin and his aids had been writing up all winter. They were long and complicated documents, in true dwarven fashion: with many intricately detailed footnotes, clauses, sub-clauses, terms and conditions. Thorin had made sure he’d had some input as well, securing pledges from each individual kingdom to provide not only aid, but warriors, should the need arise to defend Erebor once more. For while the rest of the mountain basked in the seemingly endless summer, joying in the flourishing life all around them, Thorin remembered all too well the dire words spoken by Gandalf, about the Dark Power that had sent Azog’s army against Erebor in the first place; and the fears of Ithilrian, about the sleepless malice that had fled from Dol Guldur to Mordor once again. 

But for the present at least, the realization of those fears seemed like a far-off dream. Caravans of travellers had been able to pass far more safely over the mountains and across the lowlands; for the orc threat had been greatly diminished, owing to the vast number that had been slaughtered in what became known as the Battle for Erebor. A great monument was built upon the eastern ridge of the valley, commemorating all those who had fallen in defense of the Lonely Mountain, and their bodies had been interred in a great tomb beneath. Their names were all carved with great reverence upon the monument itself, and many flowers were laid at its feet. Dwarven stonemasons chiseled a hole at its base, and there they cemented a dwarven axe, an elven sword, and a spear from Dale, all standing proudly upright as a symbol of the alliance that had won Erebor its freedom. On the spear was set a banner, freshly woven in memory of the battle: and upon it was sewn the Seven Stars of Durin’s crown; the wide, branching tree that was the symbol of the Woodland Realm; as well as the ancient crest of the Men of Dale. There it stood throughout the seasons, fluttering proudly, until the winds of time shredded the banner and carried it away with them. 

The grass around the monument grew lush and green, and fresh flowers were always laid with reverence at its base; but ever black and bare was the ground where the orcs were burnt. 

~

Bilbo stayed in the mountain longer than he’d intended: throughout the whole of spring and summer. But as the weather began to turn, and the fresh, crisp winds of autumn began to rattle through the trees, he found himself longing for the Shire once again: to look out over his garden and see the rolling hills of Hobbiton stretching into the distance, and the thin ribbon of the Brandywine River threading its way down to Bywater. So it came as no surprise to Ithilrian when Bilbo announced his intention to leave Erebor, and travel back to the Shire. But what came as more of a shock to many was Bofur’s intention to depart with him. 

‘We set out to reclaim Erebor; and by my reckoning, we’ve done just that,’ the easygoing dwarf had smiled, looking around at his astonished travelling companions. ‘But as much as I love this place, I reckon there’s some truth to the old saying: home is where the heart is.’ He had paused, glancing fondly over at Bilbo. ‘Besides, you can’t ask a hobbit to live cooped up in a mountain forever,’ he’d added. ‘It’s just not in their nature. But I reckon that a dwarf like m’self could get used to living in a hobbit hole. Especially one like Bag End, with such a lot of good food and comfy furniture.’ 

Bilbo had blushed beneath the collective scrutiny of the Company; but despite the sorrow they all felt at the departure of their beloved companions, nobody resented Bilbo and Bofur their choice. Promises were exchanged, both from the rest of the dwarves to come and visit, and from Bilbo and Bofur to do likewise. 

‘Please, if ever any of you are passing by, feel free to drop in,’ Bilbo had told them all firmly. ‘Tea is at four; but you are all welcome at any time. Don’t even bother knocking.’ 

When the time came for them to depart, what remained of the Company gathered at the gates to wish their friends farewell. Bilbo and Bofur had timed their departure to coincide with a caravan of dwarves that would be making the journey back to Ered Luin, so as to have the safety of numbers during their trek. Ithilrian had smiled through her sorrow, watching Thorin and the dwarves heaping parting gifts upon the bewildered pair until they could barely stand, remembering the private conversation she’d had with Bilbo the previous evening. 

‘What shall I do with… um, you know? The stone?’ The hobbit had asked her, after finally managing to steal a moment alone. ‘Should I take it with me, or go and hide it back in the treasury, or…?’ 

Ithilrian had shaken her head, deep in thought. The Arkenstone no doubt belonged in Erebor; yet she found herself hesitant to have the stone revealed once more. Despite the strength of will that had allowed Thorin to overcome the dragon sickness, a lingering horror of his madness still fluttered within her; and she noticed that Thorin still avoided the treasury at all costs, reluctant to tempt fate once again.

‘Keep it,’ she had told him. ‘Take it far away from here; for my heart forebodes that nothing but ill will come of that stone, should it remain in Erebor.’ 

‘I know what you mean,’ admitted Bilbo. ‘It feels wrong, somehow, to give it to Thorin after all this time.’ He flashed her a swift, mischievous grin. ‘I never felt like a proper burglar before, you know,’ he added. ‘At least, not until now.’ 

Ithilrian had laughed softly at his words. ‘You speak the truth, _mellon nîn._ But in all honesty, the dwarves already seem to have resigned themselves to the loss of the stone. I have heard rumor that they believe that in his greed, Smaug somehow consumed it; or that it has been lost somewhere, in the darkest depths of the mountain that none have dared venture into yet.’ She paused in thought, before shrugging and raising an eyebrow. ‘Besides, the whole reason Thorin sought the stone in the first place was to secure the oaths and the loyalty of the seven dwarf kingdoms,’ she added. ‘This goal has already been accomplished; and we have the treaties to prove it. The stone no longer has a purpose.’ 

‘Fair enough.’ Bilbo had nodded and straightened his waistcoat decisively. ‘I’ll hold onto it then, I suppose. Thank you for your help with all this. It’s been playing on my mind lately, to tell the truth. I’m just pleased everything seems to have worked out all right in the end.’ He hesitated, grinning. ‘Besides, I’ve got a feeling it’ll make a lovely bedside lamp,’ he added with a chuckle.

It was this that Ithilrian remembered, smiling warmly as she watched Bilbo protesting under the sheer weight of treasure that Thorin was heaping upon the already overburdened ponycarts. 

‘Really, this is ridiculous,’ huffed the diminutive hobbit, fussing over the bags and chests that were being brought forwards. ‘I don’t need to fill Bag End’s spare rooms with my very own treasure hoard, Thorin. I’m not a dragon, you know.’ 

Thorin shook his head stubbornly. ‘You were promised one fifteenth share of the treasure,’ he told Bilbo sternly. ‘By rights you and Bofur should be taking far more than this. You have both more than earned it; and my eternal gratitude as well. Which is why I also wish to give you this.’ He beckoned Kili forwards, who was grinning fit to burst. On his shoulder sat one of Erebor’s glossy black ravens. 

‘This is Roäc, son of Carc,’ he said, reaching out to smooth the bird’s feathers fondly. ‘One of the finest of our messenger birds. He has volunteered to accompany you home, and live with you both in the Shire. He doesn’t speak our tongue; but he can understand it. If ever you have need to send us word, or if you find yourselves beset by danger, then he will bear any message speedily to Erebor. If you require anything, you only have to ask.’ 

‘Oh Thorin, really. This truly is too much,’ replied the flustered hobbit, looking up at the large black bird with some little trepidation. Roäc fixed him with a bright, intelligent eye and cawed softly, shaking out his wings experimentally. 

‘Nonsense,’ replied Thorin gruffly. ‘You helped us to reclaim our home; and helped me to reclaim my kingdom. Nothing I could offer you would ever be thanks enough.’ 

‘I… well, I really don’t know what to say,’ stuttered Bilbo. ‘But thank you.’ 

Thorin nodded regally. ‘Your name will be honored within our halls,’ he replied formally. ‘From this day hence you will be known as Bilbo Dragonriddler, friend of the Dwarves of Erebor, for as long as my line endures.’ 

Ithilrian had smiled to see Bilbo blush again with surprise and delight, before stepping forward to give her own gifts. To Bofur she gave a new flute, cunningly wrought from bright silver and grey Lothlórien _mallorn_ wood; before turning back towards Bilbo.

‘For you, little gardener and lover of growing things, I have only a small gift,’ she told him softly. She placed into his hands a wooden box, unadorned save for a single silver rune upon the lid. ‘Herein lies the last of the enchanted earth from Lothlórien,’ she said, smiling as Bilbo’s eyes widened in astonishment. ‘May your garden ever be fruitful, my dear friend and companion. I name you elf-friend and blessed.’ 

‘Oh my goodness.’ Bilbo had lifted the box reverently, shaking his head in wonder. ‘Oh, by the sainted Valar. Thank you.’ 

‘By Mahal, just look at your face!’ crowed Bofur delightedly. ‘Just you wait till we get back, and you can use some of that on your own plants. The rest of the Shire gardeners won’t know what’s hit them.’ He chortled gleefully. ‘Prizewinning cucumbers, here we come!’ 

‘That’s really… I really don’t think that would be at all sporting,’ Bilbo retorted, trying and failing to conceal his laughter. ‘Thank you, my friends. Thank you, everyone.’ He sniffed, his voice catching in his throat; and if the rest of the dwarves were forced to look away, snuffling and pretending that they had something in their eye, then nobody thought to mention it. Long they all stood upon the gates, waving farewell to their companions, as the dwarven caravan toiled slowly down the dusty path, and eventually disappeared from sight. 

~

The days continued to pass. Autumn turned into winter, and as the nights drew in and the weather grew colder once again, Ithilrian found that she had never been more grateful for the heat of the dwarven forges. The furnaces were kept burning day and night, suffusing the entire mountain with a blessedly welcome warmth. Several of the wood elves had elected to remain in the Lonely Mountain too; and among them was Tauriel, newly promoted by Thorin to Captain of the Erebor Guard. For after Ithilrian’s urging, Kili had gone to her, and poured out his heart in a tumble of words that had occasionally stumbled but did not falter; and after standing in silent amazement for several seconds, Tauriel had accepted him. 

Their wedding was due to be held the following spring. Unsurprisingly, Tauriel had immediately gone to Ithilrian after Kili’s proposal, seeking advice from the Queen about how to best deal with dwarven customs. Ithilrian had been delighted by the news. 

‘Congratulations,’ she said warmly. ‘This is the finest news I’ve had all season. You are simply perfect for one another.’ 

‘Thank you,’ the wood elf replied, her green eyes bright and joyful. ‘Kili tells me I have you to thank for encouraging him to speak out,’ she added. ‘I am grateful that you did; for while I believe my heart has yearned towards him for some time, I did not know he felt as strongly as he did. Dwarves seem to have an… odd way of displaying affection at times.’ 

Ithilrian smiled, shaking her head ruefully. ‘I believe it depends on the dwarf,’ she replied. ‘But then, I am hardly one to speak of such things. For myself, I had no idea that Thorin felt so deeply for me until he confessed to it in Mirkwood. Afterwards, I felt so foolish; as though I must have been both blind and deaf to have missed it for so long.’ 

Tauriel had laughed at that, shaking out her long auburn hair. ‘Then perhaps we are both fools when it comes to love,’ she replied quietly. ‘I know I am only a lowly sylvan elf, but…’ 

Ithilrian leaned forwards, cutting off her words. ‘You are no such thing,’ she interrupted firmly. ‘There is nothing lowly about you, _mellon nîn._ You have both great skill, and great courage. I shall never forget the day you saved the life of my nephew; and how you helped us all upon our road to Erebor. Your name will be honored within the Lonely Mountain, no matter your clan or heritage. This I swear.’ 

~

Winter passed; and spring came again. Kili and Tauriel’s wedding was held in the main hall, with as much honor and ceremony as befitted a Prince of the Realm. Kili had been near frozen with nerves as the time drew nearer and nearer, fiddling distractedly with his braids until they all but came undone, and his hair was a complete mess; but the minute he’d seen Tauriel step forwards, dressed in a sweeping moss-green gown with her head wreathed in a crown of living flowers, his face had near split in two with the brilliance of his smile. Ithilrian and Thorin had looked on fondly, their hands firmly entwined, as the young couple exchanged their vows. 

‘Another elven and dwarven union,’ Thorin had murmured, amusement heavy in his voice. ‘It appears we have set a trend, _kurdûnuh.’_

‘Perhaps.’ Ithilrian had been unable to stop smiling, her heart pulsing delightedly within her. ‘After all, where the King leads, his people will follow,’ she added. And as the young couple finally kissed, beneath the watching eyes of their friends and loved ones, she thought that her days could hardly be more joyful, or more blessed than they already were. 

~

The years that followed passed swiftly. Under the joint reign of Thorin and Ithilrian, Erebor seemed once more set to rise to its former majesty and glory; perhaps even to surpass it. The deep mines were reopened, and soon a flood of fresh gems and precious metals began to pour once more into the treasury, and from there into the surrounding lands. Dale grew prosperous under the leadership of Bard; for although the man himself was reluctant to take city’s reigns, the survivors from the fall of Laketown would have no leader other than the one they had dubbed the Dragonslayer.

‘It all seems a bit like a dream now,’ he admitted to Ithilrian, during one of the rare moments of calm they’d managed to snatch between their duties, sharing a glass of elvish wine beneath the slender boughs of the _mallorn_ tree. ‘It still feels odd when they call me the Dragonslayer. It’s as if that was a completely different man who stood amid the ruins of a burning town and shot down Smaug with his bow and arrow.’ 

Ithilrian had smiled, nodding in understanding. ‘That is often how the past presents itself, when the trauma of a memory is too much for the mind to easily recall,’ she had said softly. ‘Do not be concerned by it. I know only that your people have chosen well in this matter. You are making a fine leader, my friend. Long may it continue.’ 

Bard had nodded thoughtfully, speaking proudly of how his son and daughters were already adapting to a life away from the Long Lake. He had been putting plans in place for Bain to succeed him as Lord of Dale. For while Sigrid was the eldest of his children, she was also the more stubborn; and had firmly refused to accept the role of heir. Instead, she was devoting her time to Dale’s new wineries, which were becoming the toast of the northern lands. For as the years passed, and the verdant fruitfulness of Erebor’s lands only seemed to increase, several vineyards were planted upon Dale’s eastern slopes. Before long, the Men of Dale had turned into extremely proficient brewers and distillers, with as fine a reputation as anyone could ask for. Their wines were much sought after by the Mirkwood folk, who used their barges to transport vast quantities upstream; and their beers were much celebrated within the Lonely Mountain itself, for all dwarves have a great love of fine ales. The first batch of Dale Ale was met with much delight; and after it had been officially sampled, and the first cask broached by Thorin himself, that particular brew was officially renamed The Golden Ale of the Mountain King, in honor of the ruler of Erebor. However, such is the way of words that it was more commonly referred to in passing as the Oakenbrew; a fact that made Fili and Kili laugh for a week when they discovered it.

And so the seasons passed; and for decades, all seemed well beneath the mountain. But as the years rolled by in a seeming unending stream, it became slowly apparent that all was not well within the rest of Middle Earth. Darkness crept back into the forests of the world, and rumor grew of a Shadow in the East; whispers of a nameless fear. For as Ithilrian had predicted, Sauron had not been idle. Fell news began to arrive from the Ered Lithui, the Mountains of Ash: orcs were multiplying in the Pits of Gorgoroth, and the Dark Tower had once more been rebuilt in the land of Mordor. 

They were grim rumors; but for a long time, rumor was all that Thorin and Ithilrian had to go on. Until one evening in late spring, when a horseman arrived at the gates of the Lonely Mountain, bearing a message that set certain events in motion that could not be undone; and that would have great impact upon the fate of Middle Earth itself. 

~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Elvish Translation Notes: 
> 
> Ada = father  
> Ammë = mother  
> Mellon nîn = my friend  
> Veleth nîn = my love  
> Ni lassui = thank you  
> Nai tiruvantel ar varyuvantel i Valar tielyanna nu vilya = May the Valar protect you on your path under the sky.


	52. Epilogue: The War of the Ring

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Through dragonfire and dragon sickness, we come at last to the end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are, folks. This is the final chapter of this fic, in which we arrive at the end of our tale; and the end of Thorin and Ithilrian's reign under the mountain. (Please note the word _end!!_ Serious feels ahead!) 
> 
> In all honesty, I cried while writing parts of this chapter. My friends, you have been warned. Proceed at your own peril.

_Time is a peculiar thing_ , mused Ithilrian as she walked with a light step through Erebor’s now-familiar corridors. Sixty years had passed since she and Thorin had set out on their Quest; and much had occurred during those intervening seasons. But still, Ithilrian could recall setting out from Bag End as though it were yesterday. It was as if the years in between had passed in the blink of an eye, rolling relentlessly forwards like a great foaming river, carrying her helplessly along in its wake. 

But that wasn’t to say that the intervening years had been entirely without incident. Ithilrian smiled, tilting her head sideways and listening intently, easily identifying the awkward, shuffling footsteps of the tiny dwarfling that was attempting to stealthily tail her. For seven years ago, during the height of midsummer, something had occurred which had made Ithilrian smile to her very soul; and had made her husband almost burst with pride and joy. Fili son of Víli, nephew of Thorin Oakenshield and Crown Prince of Erebor, had been blessed with a son. 

It had barely been two months after the marriage that his wife had announced she was pregnant. Tall as Fili and just as broad, Kélda had been a warrior in Dain Ironfoot’s army long before she married the Prince, and still carried an enormous double-bladed axe almost as large as herself. The very picture of dwarven beauty, her figure was lush and unmistakably hourglass, with a long mass of waving black hair, a neatly braided beard, and deep-set glimmering eyes framed by thick, curling lashes. She had arrived with Dain Ironfoot’s forces just in time to fight in the Battle for Erebor six decades hence, and had not left Erebor since. 

Swiftly she had struck up a friendship with Tauriel, who at the time had been newly promoted to a Captain of the Erebor Guard. Through spending time with the slender wood elf, she had become acquainted with Kili; and from there, had unwittingly captured the heart of his brother. Their courtship had been slow and careful, and for the most part kept secret from the rest of the mountain folk. It wasn’t until well over a year later that the pair became officially betrothed; and another six months after that till they were wed. Two months later, Kélda had fallen pregnant; and a further eleven months after that, the babe had been finally born. 

All the royal family, save for Fili, had been shooed unceremoniously out of the birthing chamber by the midwives when her contractions began. Hovering nervously outside and unable to keep still, Kili had spent the entire time pacing up and down the corridor, chewing anxiously on his shirt cuff. 

‘It’s been ages,’ he mumbled, for the twelfth time that past hour. ‘D’you think she’s okay? Should we go in and…?’ 

‘For the hundredth time, no!’ grunted Thorin, frustration writ large over his features. ‘Durin’s beard, will you just sit down?’ 

‘I can’t,’ replied Kili, scowling. ‘I feel all jittery, Uncle. I can’t help being worried. That’s my brother in there, and his wife. I just… I just want them to be okay.’ 

Thorin loosed a long, irritable sigh, clenching his fists and willing himself not to snap too harshly at his nephew. Truth be told, the entire family had been feeling a mounting pressure over the past few months. Few people seemed inclined to speak the words aloud; but everybody knew that this baby, this birth, was one of the most important that Erebor had seen in decades. This was not just any child. Valar permitting, this would be the next Heir of Durin. 

Thorin groaned internally as Kili resumed his pacing, running a frustrated hand through his greying hair. The passing years had been kind to him, he knew. He was still hale and strong in both body and mind, despite being close on two hundred and fifty years old; but despite that, his bones ached during the winter months, and he knew with impending certainty that his allotted span of years was running out. 

He kept his gaze fixed on Ithilrian. She was seated opposite him, utterly still and silent, with her fingers tightly clasped and her grey eyes unfocussed, as though she was gazing somewhere other than this mortal world. Only the slight jump and twitch of a small muscle in her clenched jaw betrayed the worry he knew was simmering just beneath her serene façade. 

‘Surely it cannot be much longer.’ Tauriel spoke softly, glancing worriedly between Kili and the closed door. ‘Take heart, Kili. Come here.’ She reached out to comfort her worried husband, drawing him close and attempting to soothe his jangling nerves. But it did little good. The dwarf simply could not keep still, squirming out of her grip after a few moments, only to resume his pacing once again. 

Thorin growled low in his throat, opening his mouth to snap at Kili once again; but at that very moment, Ithilrian’s head snapped up and around with the speed of a whipcrack. 

‘Hush,’ she said softly, at the same time as Tauriel gasped. 

‘What? What is it?’ asked Kili eagerly, his voice strained with nerves. 

‘Listen.’ Tauriel smiled, taking his hand and squeezing it lightly. In the silence that followed, it didn’t take a pair of elven ears to hear the faint sound drifting down from the birthing chamber. It was the high, insistent cry of a newborn. 

‘Durin’s beard,’ murmured Thorin, standing upright and glancing between Ithilrian and the door uncertainly. ‘Does that mean…?’ 

His questions were forestalled as the chamber door opened, and a smiling dwarven midwife beckoned the royal family inside. Thorin swallowed hard, feeling suddenly apprehensive as he stepped up beside Ithilrian. 

There, sitting up in bed, looking proud but exhausted, sat Kélda. Her dark eyes were shining with triumph, and a small, blanket-wrapped bundle was in her arms. Beside her sat Fili, his face haggard and weary from long nights of worrying, but with such joy lighting his eyes that Thorin felt something twist painfully inside his chest. 

‘It’s a boy,’ the prince said, his voice trembling slightly but still strong. ‘A baby boy.’ 

Thorin exhaled a long, slow breath. ‘Good,’ he said, his voice sounding strange to his own ears. ‘That’s… good.’ He shook his head, almost uncertain of what to do. Kili had pulled his older brother into a bone-crushing hug, and was pounding his back unmercifully; while Ithilrian and Tauriel had gravitated to the new mother’s side. The wood elf was speaking in a low voice with the healers, while Ithilrian simply took a seat, and smiled warmly at Kélda. 

‘Congratulations, gwathél,’ she murmured softly. ‘You have been so brave; and at last, it is done.’ 

‘Aye, it is,’ nodded Kélda, fiercely proud yet still smiling. ‘And a healthier, brighter baby boy I couldn’t have wished for, Mahal be praised.’ 

All eyes turned to the blanket-wrapped bundle in Kélda’s arms. A tiny, scrunched-up face was just visible, already sporting an entire head of soft, dark hair. 

‘He takes after you, Kél,’ breathed Kili, agog. ‘Durin’s beard, he’s got your coloring, just look.’ 

As if aware of all the attention focused upon him, the babe’s eyes blinked slowly open. Ithilrian felt the breath hitch in her throat as the youngster peered wonderingly up at the faces above him, opening his tiny mouth in a small, gurgling yawn, before his gaze seemed to settle on the pale elf. One tiny hand freed itself from the blankets to wave around aimlessly. 

‘By the blessed Lady Varda,’ breathed Ithilrian, her voice unsteady as a roaring wave of emotion swept over her. ‘Just look at his eyes.’ She reached out tentatively, drawn almost against her will, allowing the babe’s tiny fingers to latch onto one of her own.

‘Blue eyes. He’s got blue eyes.’ Thorin’s voice was hoarse and unsteady.

‘That he does,’ grinned Kélda in triumph. ‘Durin blue eyes. Just like his father; like his uncle and grand-uncle too.’ She glanced up at Fili. ‘That’s why we decided on the name, just before you arrived,’ she added carefully.

Fili nodded determinedly. ‘He’s called Thorin, Uncle. And no arguments.’ 

‘Wh…?’ Thorin’s jaw dropped with astonishment; but at those words, Ithilrian loosed a long, soft laugh. It bubbled up from within her like a mountain stream: a simple outpouring of joy. 

‘Of course he is,’ she whispered; gazing down at Fili’s son, grey eyes meeting blue eyes as if for the first time. ‘How could he be called anything else?’ She shook her head, glancing up at Kélda, meeting the female dwarf’s determined stare. ‘It is right,’ she added, ignoring her spluttering husband, who still appeared to be utterly taken aback. ‘The name is perfect. You have chosen wisely, my friend.’ 

‘Thank you.’ Kelda lay back, exhaustion clouding her face once more. ‘Would you like to hold him?’ she added, fixing Ithilrian with an appraising stare. 

‘I… me?’ the silver elf gaped for a moment. ‘You would allow me…?’ 

‘Why not?’ Kélda replied. ‘Please, take him for a moment. My back is killing me, and I can barely keep my eyes open.’ 

Gingerly Ithilrian leant forwards, reaching out to take the tiny, precious bundle in her arms. Cradling the babe close to her chest, she felt the faint echo of an old, familiar ache pulse through her. _This is what it could have been like,_ her treacherous inner thought whispered. _Had I followed another path, and found a lover of my own species: this is what I could have had. Instead…_

She shook her head, banishing the maudlin thoughts. The dwarfling felt light as a feather in her arms. His tiny mouth opened in another gurgling yawn, but his bright blue eyes never left Ithilrian’s face. 

‘Welcome to the world, little one,’ she whispered gently. ‘Welcome to life in Erebor, _tithen luin-iaeth.’_

Kili leaned forwards curiously, allowing the infant’s flailing hand to grab hold of one of his dangling braids. ‘What’re you calling him, auntie?’ 

Ithilrian chuckled as the babe tugged at Kili’s hair, causing him to wince. ‘I am saying _tithen luin-iaeth,_ which you would say as _little blue eyes_ in westron. It seems as fitting an endearment as any.’ 

‘It does.’ Thorin seemed finally to have regained the power of speech. ‘All my life, never did I think to expect…’ he glanced back to the bed; only to find that through a combination of happiness, relief, and exhaustion, Kélda had already fallen fast asleep. 

Fili chuckled softly. ‘Let her rest,’ he said quietly, as Thorin opened his mouth to speak. ‘Mahal knows, she’s earned it.’ 

‘Of course.’ Thorin cleared his throat and straightened his tunic, trying and failing to conceal the broad smile that was creasing his face. ‘Right, come on, all of you. Let’s leave her in peace.’ He paused at the door, gazing back into the room, watching the slender grey form of Ithilrian stoop over the babe in her arms with a smile that was so loving, so tender, that it made his heart thunder painfully in his chest. Silvery bright she appeared in the dim lamplit chamber, her hair hanging over her shoulder in a long fall of glimmering white, illuminating the child in her arms with an almost ethereal glow. Thorin winced internally. _That should have been us; should have been our child,_ his inner thought murmured, bitter as an edged blade. _In a different age, or a different life perhaps…_

He bit down hard on the treacherous thoughts, banishing them to the back of his mind. _That is nonsense,_ he told himself sternly. _Ithilrian and I do not need a child to complete us. We are strong enough together. Not only do we have Fili and Kili, who are as good as sons, but she has her sister’s sons and daughter as well. We both do. And now… a grand-nephew, if that is indeed the word for it._ He smiled, watching the dwarfling raise a tiny hand and make a grab for the elf’s silver hair, his heart swelling at the sound of Ithilrian’s gentle laughter. _That child is going to have the most formidable guardian in Middle Earth,_ he thought to himself, watching the elf envelop the dwarfling’s diminutive fingers in her own, her grey eyes ever watchful. 

‘Ithilrian?’ he said quietly. A slight shiver ran through him as she raised her eyes to meet his. 

‘I shall remain here with the little one, for a time.’ The elf’s voice was soft and barely audible. ‘At least, till Kélda wakens once more.’ 

Thorin nodded in understanding, hesitating with one hand on the doorframe. ‘Would you like me to remain with you?’ he asked carefully, watching her expression for any sign of upset or sorrow.

The elf simply shook her head, still smiling faintly. ‘That will not be necessary, my love. Young Thorin and I will be just fine together, for a little while.’ Her smile widened at the expression of wonderment that passed over Thorin’s face once more. ‘I shall find you later. For now, you should go with Fili,’ she added encouragingly. ‘He will have need of you, _a’maelamin._ Tell him that you are proud of him.’ 

‘I am. I mean, I will.’ With a final backwards glance, Thorin closed the door behind him. The chamber was silent once more, save for the deep breathing of Kélda and the soft, occasional sounds from Young Thorin in Ithilrian’s arms. 

‘Thorin,’ she whispered, softly as the night breezes as she settled back into a low-slung comfy chair, rocking the infant comfortingly as he squirmed and gurgled. ‘You bear a proud name, _tithen-mîn_ ,’ she told him gently. ‘Proud as the seas, the skies, and the very bones of the mountain you shall one day rule as King.’ The baby blinked, seeming to gaze up at her in astonishment with wide, blue eyes. ‘Yes, one day you shall rule over the great kingdom of Erebor,’ murmured Ithilrian, smiling in amusement as the babe seemed to latch onto her words as though in  
understanding. ‘I simply wish I could be there to see it. But alas, my heart tells me that my days on these shores are numbered; and that number is diminishing with each passing season.’ 

She shifted slightly, adjusting the infant in her arms as he yawned widely once more. The hour was growing late. Softly, with a voice as low and mellow as the late autumn sunshine, Ithilrian began to sing. It was an old, half-forgotten song that she had once sung many moons ago, beneath the grey boughs of the Golden Wood. The soft notes of the ancient elven melody filled the air, seeming to glimmer briefly in the silence like fireflies, before drifting up into the cavernous might of Erebor’s gold-veined stone, and disappearing into the heart of the Lonely Mountain.

~

Night had fallen before Kélda awoke. She sat up and stretched, looking around blearily before spotting the silent, pale form of Ithilrian sitting at a low chair some distance away. The birthing apparatus had all been cleared away, and the bustling medics and midwives that had hounded her the past few days had also gone. Save for the still, silent form of the elf cradling her newborn child, not a soul stirred. 

‘Lady Ithilrian.’ Kélda cleared her throat as the grey elf’s gaze lifted towards her. Even despite having being fully accepted into the family for some time now, the younger dwarf had always found it difficult to refer to the King and Queen without prefixing their names with some form of title. 

‘Lady Kélda,’ replied the elf, smiling faintly. ‘Did you sleep well?’ 

‘I did,’ she replied, pulling herself into a sitting position and stifling a yawn. ‘For a change. It’s nice to be able to rest without the little one wriggling in my belly all night.’ She paused, glancing around. ‘How long did I sleep?’ she added. ‘It feels late. Have you been here all this time?’

Ithilrian inclined her head. ‘Dusk fell four hours hence. It will be fully dark outside the mountain by now.’ 

‘Oh.’ Kélda huffed quietly. ‘I didn’t mean to sleep for that long.’ She hesitated, casting a careful eye over Ithilrian. ‘I didn’t do wrong, naming him after King Thorin?’ she added quietly. ‘Fili was adamant that you both wouldn’t mind, but…’ she hesitated. 

Ithilrian shook her head, meeting the dwarf’s dark gaze. ‘No wrong at all, _mellon nîn,’_ she replied gently. ‘It is a fierce, strong name that will withstand all that Middle Earth can throw at it. This child will grow up knowing he is named after not one, but two Kings of Durin’s folk. It is a proud and ancient legacy that he will carry.’ 

Kélda sighed with relief. ‘I’m glad you think so. But when you put it like that…’ she hesitated. ‘That’s an awful lot to lay on one single child,’ she muttered distractedly. ‘The history, the legacy… it’s so much to think of. So much to take in. What if we cannot raise him to be as strong as you say? What if he does not want to be a King?’ 

Ithilrian smiled warmly, reassuringly. ‘Have no fears on that account,’ she told Kélda. ‘I can feel it in my heart. I do not foretell; but still, I can feel that this child will grow to be as strong a King as Erebor has ever known.’ She paused, glancing fondly down at the sleeping infant. ‘How could he not be?’ she added softly. ‘You and Fili will make fine parents. You will teach him the ways of the mountain, the ways of his people. He carries the blood of Durin in his veins. That is not a line that will ever be easily broken.’ 

‘You may be right.’ Kélda narrowed her eyes shrewdly. ‘Still, that doesn’t mean he won’t need all the help he can get, from you and King Oakenshield as well.’ 

‘Perhaps. But I fear that Thorin and I may not linger upon this earth for many more years,’ replied Ithilrian, her voice barely above a whisper. ‘Thorin is old, _gwathél._ You know this better than most. And while I may yet look young, five thousand years takes its toll on both mind and spirit.’ 

‘Don’t say that.’ Kélda shook her head. ‘Not here. Not now.’ 

Ithilrian bowed her head. ‘My apologies.’ 

‘Not necessary.’ Kelda shook her head tiredly. ‘All I know is that my Fili is terrified of the day that Thorin passes the crown on to him. He is afraid he won’t make a good king.’ 

Ithilrian tilted her head to one side questioningly. ‘And what is it that you think?’ she asked quietly. 

‘I… am not certain,’ admitted Kélda. ‘I’m not exactly cut out for all this… this reigning business, you know. I’m just a lowly blacksmith’s daughter, for Mahal’s sake. Unlike you, I was neither born nor raised to be a Queen.’ 

Ithilrian smiled. ‘It matters not,’ she replied gently. ‘What matters is that you do what is right, _mellon nîn._ It doesn’t matter whether it is the fate of one person, or an entire realm that lies in your hands. Every day, it is making the decision to do what is right; what is best for the lives that are in your care. In the end, it is all that we can do.’

Kélda smiled wanly. ‘Well, I hope it will be many years till Fili and I have to make such decisions.’ 

‘Indeed.’ Ithilrian stood, inclining her head gracefully, before stooping to hand back the tiny bundle. Young Thorin was sleeping peacefully, his pudgy fingers clutching the edge of the blanket tightly. Kélda sighed softly, gathering her son into her arms once again. 

‘I shall leave you in peace.’ Ithilrian smiled fondly, pausing at the door. ‘I will send Fili up to you once he is awake. But if you have need of me, call. I shall hear.’ 

‘Thank you.’ Kélda smiled warmly, settling herself back against the pillows, cradling her son with infinite care. ‘I feel very lucky, you know,’ she added quietly. ‘Lucky to have found, and been accepted, by such a family.’

‘As do I, _mellon nîn,’_ replied Ithilrian softly. ‘As do I.’ 

~

Seven years passed, and the babe quickly became known as Young Thorin throughout the mountain. He was growing up strongly, as clever and mischievous a young dwarfling as any who had once trod Erebor’s cavernous halls. He ran his parents ragged, as infant dwarflings often do; so that it was a common sight to see Ithilrian striding through Erebor with the youngest prince held firmly in her arms, or trotting along beside her, clutching her hand tightly. Swiftly the two had become inseparable. Often, when the babe was fretful at nights, crying and refusing to settle, Fili would slip along to the Queen’s Chambers and knock bashfully at the door, mumbling a request that maybe, just maybe, Ithilrian could take the little one and sing him to sleep, and allow his poor tired parents to snatch a rare few hours of peace? 

Ithilrian always smiled and acquiesced readily to the request. Ever since she had first laid eyes upon him, she had felt a fierce, protective love well up in her heart for the tiny, defenseless infant: for the child of her nephew, who bore her husband’s name. At such times Thorin would often help her sing the child to sleep, his deep bass voice mingling with Ithilrian’s in gentle harmony; for the passing years had not affected the beauty of his singing. Still it was as soft as velvet, yet powerful as distant thunder; and together, they sang to the little one of his people, his legacy, and the past they had managed to overcome.

_Far over the Misty Mountains cold,_  
_To dungeons deep, and caverns old,_  
_We must away, ere break of day,_  
_To find our long-forgotten gold…_

Every time she heard, or sang, the slow rolling song that seemed to hum through the bones of the mountain itself, Ithilrian felt as if she were falling for Thorin anew; falling in love with the gentle, comforting rumble of her husband’s voice, of the heartfelt longing held within his song. Often her mind would be swept back to that fateful night in Bag End, when the Company had come together at last; the night before they had begun the journey that could have so easily led any of them to their deaths. 

But it had not. They had triumphed. Smaug was long dead, his body sunk into the depths of the Long Lake; and Azog the Defiler was nothing more than charred handful of ashes and bones. The cost of victory had been a bitter one, yet Erebor was flourishing. But as the years passed by, and rumors from the distant lands to the east grew darker and darker, Ithilrian began to feel afraid. She knew that something was coming: like a glowering bank of black clouds one sees in the distance, promising an oncoming storm. So it was almost a relief when, one warm summer’s eve, an ashen-faced young dwarf stumbled into her chambers, stuttering out a message that Thorin needed her urgently at the front gates.

_So it begins,_ she thought, a sense of dark foreboding settling over her like a great cloak. Without hesitation she followed the young dwarf guard, steeling herself to face whatever fresh trial fate had placed in her path. 

~

Thorin had been uneasy all day. Despite the mountain’s apparent calm, he seemed unable to shake off the prickling feeling on the back of his neck; a sense that somehow, somewhere, all was not as it should be. So when a shaking, white-faced guard arrived to tell him that a strange messenger had arrived, and his presence was requested at the gates, he did not even blink in surprise. 

‘What manner of messenger is it?’ he asked, pausing to sling Orcrist over his shoulder, running a hand over the sword’s familiar haft. 

‘I… I don’t really know,’ mumbled the young guard. Thorin was surprised. Stern and unshakeable were most of the dwarves who had taken on responsibility for the protection of Erebor; but this youngster was still trembling uncontrollably as he relayed his message. 

‘At first glance, I thought it was just another human,’ he admitted. ‘He’s man-sized, that’s for certain. He came riding up to the gates on a big black horse, all wrapped up in a great dark cloak with a hood. I couldn’t see his face. But his voice…’ The young guard broke off, shuddering. ‘There’s something not right about him,’ he muttered. ‘I dunno what it is. But it wasn’t just me. The others felt it too. Like… like there’s something dangerous out there. First thing we did was to make sure the gates were fully sealed, just in case.’ 

Thorin nodded thoughtfully. ‘You did well.’ The sweating guard sighed with relief, trotting along in Thorin’s wake as the dwarf king swept along the mountain paths. 

‘He wanted to come inside,’ he continued. ‘Said he had a message that was for the ears of the King alone. I told him that no stranger sets foot inside our mountain without either yours or the Silver Lady’s say-so. He laughed at that.’ 

‘Laughed?’ Thorin raised an eyebrow quizzically. The guard shrugged.

‘Well, it seemed like a laugh. More of a hiss, really. Then he said that he didn’t come all this way to treat with some jumped-up elf witch, but with the true King Under the Mountain.’ The guard winced under Thorin’s sudden intense scrutiny. ‘I’m sorry, y’majesty,’ he mumbled. ‘But that’s what he said.’ 

‘I see.’ Thorin’s face creased in a thunderous scowl. ‘Go on.’ 

The guard shrugged. ‘There isn’t all that much more to tell. We told him that, like it or not, these gates stay sealed until we get orders to do otherwise. So he said that if he couldn’t come inside to speak with you, he’d wait out there until you came to him. Said he had an important message from his Master that would bring great wealth, and great power, to Durin’s Folk; if you were wise enough to heed his words.’ 

‘Did he indeed?’ growled Thorin. ‘And do you trust this… this messenger? Do you think he speaks the truth?’ 

‘No.’ The young dwarf answered without hesitation. ‘No, I don’t. There’s something about him I don’t like. Something about the way he speaks that made my skin crawl. Like he could melt the flesh clean off your bones, if he’d a mind to do so. And when he drew near, it got suddenly colder; as though all the warmth had been sucked out of the sun.’ 

Thorin nodded grimly. He did not like the sound of this messenger at all; and moreover, he could make a guess at from whence the message hailed. _This must be what Ithilrian has feared, throughout all these long years of peace,_ he thought to himself. _This is the first roll of the dice: the first step towards the war we always knew was coming._

‘You did well,’ he said aloud. ‘I will go and speak with this messenger. But while I treat with him, I want you to run as quick as you can and fetch the Queen. Bring her straight to the gates. I have a feeling that she will be needed.’ 

‘Right away, y’majesty,’ nodded the guard, his face awash with open relief at not having to return to face the strange messenger. He took off like an arrow from a bow, disappearing back into Erebor’s cavernous depths, as Thorin mounted the steps that led up to the front gate. 

The guards all around him were tense. They had not yet drawn their weapons; but he noticed that nearly all of their hands were white-knuckled on the hilts of various axes and swords. He set his jaw firmly, determined to brook no nonsense from this supposed messenger. 

There he sat, before the gates, just as the guard had said. Still seated atop his great black horse, the dark figure seemed almost hunched in the saddle; but even so, Thorin could see that the newcomer must be a man of great height. A biting cold seemed to enter his bones at the sight, and a shiver of something like a long-forgotten fear trembled through him for an instant. 

‘Who are you?’ he called down from the battlements. ‘What business do you have in my kingdom?’ 

At the sound of his voice the hooded head swiveled up to look at him. No face was visible beneath the rider’s deep cowl, but still Thorin could feel the burning intensity of the hidden gaze that seemed suddenly turned upon him, like a lance of searing flame. 

‘Hail Thorin, son of Thrain, son of Thrór,’ came a soft, sibilant reply. ‘My Master has sent me to bear great tidings to thee in this hour. Will not you open your gates, so we may speak of them together?’ 

Thorin shuddered at the sound of the rider’s fell voice. A muscle twitched in his clenched jaw. ‘These gates will not admit any person into my kingdom whose purpose I do not know, or whose intentions I do not trust,’ he snapped. 

‘A wise precaution, O King, in this untrusting age,’ came the fawning reply. ‘Yet still, I have words to speak that are fit for thy ears alone. I carry a message that must be delivered.’ 

‘Then deliver it, and leave,’ Thorin replied brusquely.

‘Do not be so hasty with your words,’ came the reply. ‘Will you not at least come down from your high walls, so that we may speak with one another as civilized men? Or must you shout at me from atop your battlements, like any low brigand or petty chieftain of old?’ 

Thorin growled, stung by the words, and by the cold laughter in the stranger’s voice. ‘Very well,’ he snarled. ‘I will come down.’ He left the wall without bothering to wait for the rider’s reply. ‘Send for the elven archers,’ he murmured to the nearest guard. ‘Have them standing ready, just in case.’ 

The guard nodded, hurrying away to carry out his King’s command. Thorin descended the steps, his heart thudding painfully. _Ithilrian, where are you?_ he thought frantically. He was certain that the grey elf should be at his side. Mahal only knew how much better she was at diplomacy than him; but it wasn’t just for that reason that he desired her presence. The guard had been right. A sick, numbing cold seemed to have fallen over the area, draining the warmth from his flesh and the brightness out of the evening sun. The air itself felt heavy and stifling, crackling with some unknown tension as the great gates eased open a fraction, allowing him to step through. 

‘I will hear what you have to say,’ he said grimly, as the black rider dismounted from his steed and stepped nearer. He gritted his teeth, unable to prevent a shudder of distaste as the fell creature drew close. 

‘Then listen well,’ the messenger said softly, his voice dropping to a low, guttural hiss. ‘For it is my Master, Lord Sauron the Great, who has sent me to thee at this time. He wishes for the friendship of Durin’s Folk. Rings he will give for it: rings of great power, such as he gave of old.’ The black rider paused, tilting his hooded head to one side as if to see the effect his words were having, before continuing. ‘And as a small token of thy friendship, Sauron asks only this. He requires information about a breed known as _hobbits:_ what kind they are, and from whence they hail. For Sauron knows that one of these creatures was well known to you, for a time.’ 

Thorin said nothing. He clenched his jaw tightly, trying to dispel the cold, numbing horror that was slowly crawling up his spine. _Bilbo, he must mean Bilbo,_ his inner thought muttered. _But why? What in Durin’s name does this foul creature want with him, or with the Shire?_

The black rider hissed softly at Thorin’s lack of a reply. ‘Perhaps this will persuade thee of my Master’s friendship,’ he added softly. From within his dark robe came a single, heavily-gauntleted hand. He opened it; and there, in his palm, gleamed a ring. Thorin gasped in shock. For it was not just any old ring that the messenger bore; but the ring of Durin, the one that had sat on Thrór’s finger when he had ruled under the mountain; the ring that had been lost with Thrain when he disappeared in his madness.

‘How came you by this?’ he growled, finding his voice at last. But the rider seemed only to laugh softly at his outrage. 

‘You recognize it, do you not, son of Thrain? It is as Sauron willed it. Freely does he offer this ring to thee; upon the condition that you should find this… _hobbit,_ this thief, and get from him, willing or no, a little ring: the least of rings, that once he stole. It is but a trifle that Sauron fancies, and an earnest of your goodwill.’ He closed his fingers over the ring once more, and the hand withdrew back into his robe. ‘Find it, and three other rings that the Dwarf-sires possessed of old shall be returned,’ he added. ‘And the realm of Moria shall be made thine forever. Moreover, thou shalt have lasting friendship with the Lord Sauron. Refuse, and things will not seem quite so well. Do you refuse?’ 

At that, the rider’s breath came like the hiss of snakes, and all who stood by shuddered. He leaned down as if to look Thorin in the eye, despite the fact that Thorin could discern no face in the blank darkness beneath the rider’s hood. But a strange, cold malice seemed to be bent upon him; a powerful and terrible will that made his tongue cleave to the roof of his mouth, and the blood freeze in his veins. For a moment that lasted an eternity, he felt frozen to the spot, unable either to move or speak. 

Suddenly, the silence was shattered as the great gates swung wide; and out stepped Ithilrian. Alone she stood, a single pale light in the stifling darkness that seemed to hang in the evening air; and to the eyes of the onlookers, she appeared not as the gentle Queen they knew and loved, nor even as the simple elf-maid she had once been. A fell and dangerous power swirled within her, and a light so bright it hurt the eyes seemed to emanate from her very soul. As a being from ancient legend she appeared, beautiful yet deadly, robed entirely in snowy white, and a star was on her brow. 

‘Leave this place,’ she commanded, her voice resonant with authority. ‘You have no power here, servant of Mordor. This land is under my protection; and we will not treat with Sauron the faithless, Sauron the accursed. Go! Fall into the nothingness that awaits you and your master. For be you living, or dark undead, I shall smite you if you set one foul foot any further in my domain.’ 

The hooded figure snarled a string of guttural curses; but at the appearance of Ithilrian, Thorin found that he could move again. Wordlessly, he drew his sword. Orcrist gleamed with a pale, cold light as he leveled it at the messenger of Mordor, anger thundering through his veins, backing up his wife as she walked steadily towards her foe.

The back rider stepped forwards. His booted footfall rang upon the stone, loud and terrible in the echoing silence. From within his robe he withdrew a long pale sword that seemed to gleam with its own hellish light. With a hiss he leapt forwards, slicing at the silver elf with the speed of a striking snake. But even the blow appeared to fall, and Thorin cried out in alarm, Ithilrian flung up one hand. A terrific flash of blinding white light seared the air; and the black rider’s blade was cloven asunder. It splintered into fragments, the shards dropping uselessly to the floor with a clatter. The hooded figure fell back in dismay. Ithilrian stepped forwards, hand still upraised. Stern she seemed, and strong as steel; a daughter of kings from an age long passed, her white robes seeming to thrum and crackle with power. 

‘Go,’ she repeated; and her voice seemed to have grown in strength, shaking the very earth they stood upon. ‘I shall not tell you again, wraith. Flee back to your Master in Mordor; or I shall tear the undead flesh from your bones, and send your spirit into the Void!’ 

The black rider cowered, seeming to twist and writhe in pain under the intensity of her gaze, before falling back with a venomous hiss. No further words were exchanged. The rider grabbed for his horse, swinging himself up into the saddle with ungainly haste, before turning and galloping wildly away. Ithilrian stood still as stone, standing protectively before her kingdom, until the receding figure of the horseman was completely out of sight.

‘Ithilrian?’ Thorin murmured, taking a cautious step towards her. He had kept tight hold of Orcrist throughout the strange encounter; but now he loosened his grasp, reaching out with a single hand, placing it tentatively upon her arm. 

At his touch, a shiver ran through the elf. The light within her dimmed, before blinking out entirely. She shuddered, seeming to come back into herself, turning to fix Thorin with a fierce stare. 

‘It is done,’ she said; and Thorin was surprised to hear how fell and grim his wife’s voice had become. ‘The die is cast; the first stone is thrown. We have not a moment to loose. We must call a council.’ 

Thorin nodded, understanding immediately. ‘I’ll send out the ravens. King Brand of Dale can be here before nightfall.’ 

‘Good.’ Ithilrian turned on her heel, sweeping back into the mountain. With some relief, Thorin heard the great gates swing closed behind them. ‘I shall write to King Thranduil,’ she added. ‘He must come too. He is our ally in this.’ 

Thorin groaned internally. He and the Elvenking had seen little of one another over the past few decades, doing most of their trade business through intermediaries; and Thorin was personally very happy with the arrangement. But he voiced no protest as Ithilrian strode through the mountain, her jaw clenched. He knew better than to get in his wife’s way when she was feeling determined; as did the rest of Erebor, it would seem. He watched as elves and dwarves alike fell back respectfully to let her pass, all seeming to shy away from the anger that was pouring from the pale elf in waves. 

As soon as they reached their chambers, Thorin set about writing his message. The current King of Dale was Brand, son of Bain, son of Bard; and a good friend to the King and Queen under the Mountain. Given the urgency of the situation, Thorin knew that the man would not hesitate to answer the summons at once. 

Glancing to one side, he watched Ithilrian grab at a scroll of parchment, writing out a brief message in a scrawl of elvish script. He wrinkled his brow worriedly. Normally his wife was proud of her penmanship, carefully inscribing the long, flowing lines with consummate skill and precision. But not today. Her pen scratched with unseemly haste, the ink sputtering over the paper, leaving ugly blots and smears over the sloping, hurried words. 

_She is worried,_ realized Thorin, biting his lip concernedly. _More than that: she is frightened. Durin’s beard, I didn’t think anything could frighten her. Not like this._ He watched as she folded the paper haphazardly, not even bothering to search for her sealing wax and official royal stamp. She simply spilled a great glob of candlewax over the parchment, and pressed her thumb into the wax to seal the letter. 

‘Shall I take it to the ravens?’ asked Thorin, holding out one had for the message. But Ithilrian shook her head. 

‘Too slow,’ she said brusquely. ‘We need to summon him here as swiftly as may be. I shall send this with Ged.’ 

Thorin nodded. Ged was a falcon, one that Ithilrian had found as a fledgling on the rocky scree outside Erebor, starving and abandoned by his parents. She had taken pity on the helpless chick, and raised him herself within the mountain; and now he was fully-grown, with an impressive wingspan, bright golden eyes, and sharp talons that had accidently shredded more than one royal gown. 

Together they went up to the rookery: one of the very few places in the mountain that opened to the outside air. It was also where Erebor’s faithful raven messengers were housed. Thorin made sure his letter was carefully attached to his bird’s left leg, before taking it to the window and letting it fly. From the corner of his eye he watched Ithilrian speaking in low, rapid sindarin to her beloved hawk, whose fierce golden eyes blinked and dilated as though he understood every word. No sooner had she attached her message then he was gone, his great wings a blur of speed as he vanished in the direction of Mirkwood. 

‘Ithilrian?’ said Thorin quietly. He came to stand beside her, laying one careful hand over hers. He could practically feel the simmering tension that was bubbling within her as she leaned on the windowsill. Her grey eyes were still stern, gazing out over the westering lands as the sun began to set, and dusk cast its gentle shadow over Erebor. Across the flatlands, cloud layers striped the horizon in long billows of purple, amber, rose and gold. 

‘A perfect summer’s evening,’ murmured Thorin. ‘At least, to all appearances.’ 

Ithilrian shook her head. ‘A storm is coming.’ 

Thorin tightened his grip on her hand. ‘That’s as may be. But for the moment at least, we have a little calm. A little time to prepare.’ 

Ithilrian sighed, her grey eyes softening as she turned to her husband. Thorin was relieved to see her once more smiling faintly. ‘Dear heart, you are right. But that was not what I meant. Can you not feel it? The cooling breezes have all died away, and the air has become still and hot. The birds have ceased their evensong; even the insects have stilled what little noise they make. By nightfall, a torrential storm will break over the mountain.’ 

Thorin shook his head ruefully. ‘I wish I had your senses, kurdunûh.’ 

Ithilrian shrugged lightly. ‘It is simply experience, for the most part,’ she murmured. ‘If only a storm were all we had to concern ourselves with this evening. I fear it will be a long night.’ 

Thorin groaned. ‘You’re probably right. I dare say Thranduil will be a little put out, being summoned here at such short notice.’ 

‘Perhaps; but I think not, this time.’ Ithilrian paused in thought. ‘He fears Sauron as much as we; and long has he known this day would come.’ She glanced fondly down at her husband. ‘But that does not give you the excuse to rile him up,’ she added, with a hint of mirth. ‘Maybe after sixty years, the two of you will finally be able to manage a civil conversation.’ 

Thorin snorted derisively. ‘I will be perfectly civil, so long as he doesn’t spend the whole meeting staring at you as though you were an entire mine of _mithril.’_

Ithilrian laughed softly. ‘You know there is nothing in it, _veleth nîn._ We have already discussed this.’ 

‘I know.’ Thorin leaned into her warmth, his head against her arm, glad at heart to hear the silken softness of her laugh. ‘But I can’t help myself, Ithilrian. The Elvenking and I will never be friends; there is too much history between us. But I hope, for the sake of Erebor, that we can figure something out tonight.’ He paused, glancing up at her in concern. ‘You still haven’t said anything about… about what just happened,’ he added carefully. ‘Why the sudden rush? Why is everything now so urgent?’ 

Ithilrian sighed. ‘What do you want me to say?’ She glanced down at her husband, her expression steely once more. ‘That foul creature. The messenger of Mordor. You came face to face with a great evil today, Thorin Oakenshield, although you knew it not; and I thank the Valar that we have both emerged unscathed.’ 

‘What do you mean?’ Thorin frowned. ‘What even was that creature, anyway?’ 

Ithilrian shook her head. ‘That I shall tell you soon enough. Come; let us return to our chambers. Standing so openly against one of the Nine has greatly wearied me. I need food, or rest; or preferably, both.’ 

‘Of course.’ Thorin nodded in hurried agreement, internally cursing the fact that he hadn’t noticed how exhausted his wife was. ‘It will be some time before the others to arrive,’ he added. ‘We can snatch an hour or two to ourselves, at least.’ 

Ithilrian nodded. ‘Perhaps; but before that I wish to speak with my ammë, and see what counsel she has to offer. She is far wiser than I in matters such as this; and I must confess that while I know that _something_ must be done, I am at a loss as to know what.’ She shook her head bewilderedly. Thorin noticed with concern the weariness gathering in her pale grey eyes and moved closer, encouraging her to lean on him. 

‘Come on then,’ he said quietly, as though encouraging a young one. ‘Come back with me. I’ll have food brought up to our chambers. At least sit for a little while, and eat something to keep up your strength.’ 

‘Very well.’ Ithilrian inclined her head, allowing her husband to place his arm around her waist, taking her slight weight and steering her towards the stairs. It wasn’t long before they were back in the safety and comfort of her suite. Once inside, he carefully deposited Ithilrian on their bed, before striding over to the balcony doors and throwing them wide, allowing the cool evening air to stream in. 

‘Thank you,’ murmured Ithilrian. She was lying back with her eyes half-closed, watching his movements from beneath her lashes. ‘Although you may be forced to shut the doors when the storm breaks, my heart,’ she added. ‘Else when the others arrive, we shall all get terribly drenched. I cannot imagine that will improve the Elvenking’s manner at all.’ 

‘Hmpf.’ Thorin wrinkled his nose, glancing upwards with a frown. The sky was still clear, and the sun was slowly sinking in a haze of dusty crimson and bright gold. ‘It’s fine for now at least,’ he muttered. He was almost painfully aware that his wife disliked going for long periods of time without the sight of the sun, or the feel of the wind on her face. Elves were not natural cave-dwellers, after all. The fact that she had elected to remain in Erebor with him was something he still found remarkable, day after day, year after year. 

‘Great-Auntie Ithil! _Khulumê!_ Are you in there?’

An eager cry came from just outside the chamber doors. Thorin sighed, standing up to open it; and within an instant, Ithilrian’s face was wreathed in smiles.

‘Hello, little one,’ she said gently, as in toddled Young Thorin, his blue eyes wide and eager. ‘What brings you here at this hour?’ 

‘M’hungry,’ said the tiny dwarfling eagerly. Thorin had to repress a chuckle at the youngster’s expression as he stared beseechingly up at Ithilrian. ‘They said you’d have food here, _khulumê._ You and grand-uncle Thorin missed dinner again.’ 

‘So we did.’ Ithilrian stretched out an arm invitingly, allowing the little one to clamber up onto the bed beside her, snuggling into his habitual place beneath her arm. ‘There now, _tithen mîn._ Here, try an apple. They’re fresh.’ 

The young dwarf munched on the ripe fruit eagerly, still staring adoringly up at his adopted elven auntie as she rummaged through the basket of food that had been brought up, gesturing for her husband to join them. Hiding a smile, Thorin sat on the edge of the bed, inclining his head regally as he accepted a farl of warm cheese and onion bread that Young Thorin passed him. 

‘My thanks, abrithê,’ he rumbled, breaking open the roll and pausing to inhale the fragrant steam that arose. ‘How is it that you always manage to turn up whenever there’s food around?’ he added, raising a single questioning eyebrow. 

The young dwarf giggled. ‘Dunno,’ he mumbled happily around a mouthful of apple. ‘Papa say’s it’s because I’m specially gifted, uncle Thorin.’ 

‘I bet he does,’ muttered Thorin, steadfastly ignoring his wife’s mirth. ‘I seem to recall he and Kili being similarly talented at showing up for mealtimes.’ He was forced to swallow a laugh as Young Thorin appeared to consider this information carefully, before giving a decisive nod. 

‘That jus’ proves it then,’ he said seriously. ‘It must run in the family, being clever with meals.’ He glanced up at Ithilrian, reaching out to pull gently on the elf’s silver hair. ‘D’you always know when it’s dinnertime too, _khulumê?’_ he asked. ‘You keep missing meals. It’s not good for you, mama says. She says y’won’t grow up big and strong if you don’t eat all your dinners.’ 

Ithilrian laughed softly. ‘I’ve done all the growing I’m ever likely to do, little one,’ she replied. ‘But you should listen to what your _ammë_ says. You want to grow up tall and strong like your father, or Kili, or Thorin here; don’t you?’ 

‘Course I do,’ replied the young dwarfling eagerly. ‘I wanna be a warrior like you. I want a big sword to wallop all the orcs with! Whacko, just like that!’ 

‘Whacko indeed,’ nodded Thorin mock-seriously, biting the inside of his cheek to stop himself laughing aloud, feeling some of the earlier tension easing away from his shoulders. ‘I can see your history lessons are paying off.’ 

Young Thorin nodded eagerly. ‘We were learning about the Battle for Erebor today. About how the orcs and goblins came, to try and steal our home; but that you and Auntie weren’t having any of that, oho no! You weren’t bothered by those evil creatures; you just picked up your big sword and buckled on your bright armor and drove them from Erebor. _Wham! Blatt!_ Goblins went flying, and wargs went running into hiding! _Swish! Chop!_ Auntie Ithil was after them with her long sword, and she cut off their tails and sliced up their – ’ 

‘Enough! Enough, you bloodthirsty little scamp!’ laughed Ithilrian. Thorin too was no longer able to contain his chuckles. The young dwarfling was bouncing up and down on the bed, his chubby fists flailing wildly as he mimed the imaginary battle, his tiny face creased into what he thought was a ferocious warrior’s scowl. 

‘Durin’s beard,’ muttered Thorin. ‘You are growing into even more of a terror than Fili or Kili ever were, little firecracker. It’s a wonder the mountain’s still standing.’ 

Young Thorin beamed with delight. Being compared with either his father or his uncle was always a huge compliment to the little dwarf. He buried his face in the hot barley scone that Ithilrian passed him, munching contentedly as he watched Thorin stand up, unsheathing Orcrist and twirling it experimentally. 

‘One day, this sword may be yours to wield,’ he said, his voice serious once more. ‘But it takes skill, and practice, to use a blade like this one safely. Always remember that.’

Young Thorin nodded eagerly, his eyes bright as he followed his grand-uncle’s movements. Slowly at first, then with increasing speed, the dwarf king began to swing the sword. Single-edged, keener than a razor, the blade twinkled and glittered in the light. Round and around it spun, up and down in circles and figures of eight, weaving a delicate pattern of blurring silver, the steel humming and singing through the air as Thorin swung it faster and faster. 

_Ping!_ Turning, Thorin flicked out almost casually with the blade, neatly snicking the stalk from Young Thorin’s discarded apple core. The young dwarfling gasped in amazement as with a final flourish, Thorin allowed the blade to spring high in the air, twisting like a leaping salmon before landing safely back in his hands. He slid it back into its sheath, smiling warmly at the whoops and wild applause from Young Thorin. Ithilrian joined in, her eyes sparkling with delight at her husband’s display of skill and strength.

‘Woww!’ The dwarfling’s eyes were wide with admiration. ‘Can you teach me to do that, Grand-Uncle Thorin? Please?’ 

‘One day,’ promised Thorin, unable to curb the triumphant smile that curled over his face, taking small pride in the fact that despite his venerable age, he was still able to wield his sword with ease. ‘But if you want to see some clever swordplay, you should ask Ithilrian here,’ he added, his eyes twinkling mischievously as the young dwarf twisted around to stare up at the silver elf. Ithilrian laughed softly, holding out her hands in protest. 

‘Not today, little one,’ she said gently. ‘I’m far too tired to go swinging blades around tonight. But perhaps in a day or two, if you’re very good, I shall show you what may be done with my twin daggers.’ 

‘Daggers?’ Young Thorin’s eyes were so wide that they almost fell out of his head. ‘The same pair that you used on the Quest for Erebor? The special daggers?’ 

‘Indeed,’ nodded Ithilrian, grinning at the expression on the youngster’s face. ‘But only so long as you’re very well behaved, _tithen mîn.’_

‘I promise,’ nodded the dwarfling fervently, as a quiet knock sounded at the chamber door. 

‘Come,’ called Ithilrian softly. The door creaked open, and Fili peered round, his expression brightening when he saw the happy trio seated on the bed. 

‘Ah, that’s where you are, you terror!’ he said, stepping inside and shaking a finger at Young Thorin, who at least had the good grace to look embarrassed. ‘You’ve got to stop running off like that! You had your mother worried out of her mind!’ 

‘But I only wanted to come and sit with Thorin and Ithil,’ mumbled the dwarfling. ‘They’re gonna teach me to be a warrior one day. Jus’ like you.’ 

‘Oh are they, indeed?’ Fili grinned, winking at Ithilrian, who lay back against her pillows with a gentle laugh, allowing her eyes to flutter closed briefly as Young Thorin was lifted into his father’s strong arms. ‘Come on then, little warrior. Time for bed.’ 

The dwarfling nodded, yawning widely as he laid his head on Fili’s shoulder, snuggling happily into his father’s mass of bright blond hair. 

‘Uncle?’ Fili paused at the door, glancing back over his shoulder at Thorin and Ithilrian, his expression growing serious. ‘I heard there was… an incident at the gates today,’ he added carefully, mindful of the tiny bundle he was carrying. ‘Anything I should know?’ 

Thorin nodded tiredly. ‘We’ll come to speak with you and Kélda later on, once you’ve put that terror to bed. For now, Ithilrian wants to contact Lothlórien before Brand and Thranduil arrive.’ 

‘The Elvenking’s coming here?’ Fili raised his eyebrows in surprise. ‘Must be more serious than I thought.’ He glanced worriedly at Ithilrian. ‘Don’t tire yourself out, Auntie,’ he added, hefting Young Thorin higher onto his shoulder. ‘We’ll see you later. If you want me at the Council, just let us know. I’ll be ready.’ 

‘Good.’ Ithilrian smiled fondly, watching the Crown Price of Erebor depart. ‘He will make an excellent king one day,’ she murmured, almost to herself. ‘He has already grown into a fine father.’ 

‘I know.’ Thorin nodded slowly. ‘It’s hard to believe that those two young tearaways have grown up to be so big and responsible.’ He chuckled softly. ‘Well, Fili at least is responsible. Kili’s still a bit wild. But perhaps that was inevitable.’ 

‘Indeed.’ Ithilrian closed her eyes, sighing softly. But her rest was interrupted once more by the beating of powerful wings as, in a flurry of brown-barred feathers, Ged the falcon dropped from the sky like a thunderbolt, sweeping through the wide-open balcony doors. He alighted on the bedstead, strong yellow talons gripping the bronze rail tightly. 

_‘Mae g’ovannen, Ged,’_ said Ithilrian, smiling up at her faithful messenger. ‘What news do you bring us from the Elvenking?’ Swiftly she unlatched the thin piece of parchment attached to the bird’s leg and unfolded it. Thorin peered over his wife’s shoulder, looking down at the letter with a scowl.

‘What does he say?’ he asked. The parchment bore only a single, hastily scrawled line of elvish script. 

‘It says, he is on his way.’ Ithilrian folded the paper up carefully. 

‘Anything else?’ Thorin ventured, glancing up at the stony expression on his wife’s face. Ithilrian sighed. 

‘It also says, may the Valar help us all,’ she murmured. 

‘Oh.’ Thorin hesitated. Ithilrian’s face was set and grim. ‘Why is that?’ he asked carefully. ‘Ithilrian, I know there is something important you aren’t telling me. I’ve not seen you this worried for decades. Please, _amrâlimê._ What in Durin’s name is going on?’ 

Ithilrian sighed. ‘I am sorry, my love. I know nothing for certain; but the words spoken by the messenger of Mordor have troubled me greatly. Even the fact that one of the Nine has ridden so far from his Master’s side is cause for concern; for if the Nazgûl walk abroad again, Sauron must have already grown greater in power than we hoped.’ 

‘Nazgûl?’ Thorin repeated the unfamiliar word. ‘Never have I heard of such a thing before.’ 

‘Be glad of that,’ replied Ithilrian tiredly. ‘They are Sauron’s most feared and deadly servants. Which is why I am so weary; and why we must seek counsel without delay.’ She shut her eyes tightly. A shudder ran through her, and she winced, as though the memory of a long-forgotten pain had risen briefly to the surface. Thorin reached out carefully, wrapping an arm around her shoulders, pulling her into the comfort of his broadly muscled chest. She leaned into him with a grateful sigh. 

‘I must call to _ammë,’_ she said quietly. ‘I need to know if I am worrying myself unduly; or whether my fears are justified. Else I shall not be able to sleep tonight.’ 

‘Very well.’ Thorin nodded, releasing her with considerable reluctance, watching his wife worriedly as she lay back and closed her eyes once more. A slight frown of concentration flickered briefly across her face, before her features smoothed into impassivity once more. He sighed. He was well aware of what Ithilrian was doing; sending her spirit up from her body, as she had done for him before. But no matter how many times she did it, anxiety still flared within him whenever the need for it arose. He still remembered with terrible clarity the death-like sleep she had fallen into all those years ago, just after the Battle for Erebor. For thirty days he had been afraid that she might never awaken, as her spirit wandered; lost amongst unfamiliar stars. 

_But she came back in the end,_ he reminded himself sternly. _She will always come back._ He tried forcing the worry to the back of his mind, contenting himself with simply reaching out and taking hold of one of Ithilrian’s hands, shutting his eyes tightly and bending over to rest his forehead against their entwined fingers. He knew she would not feel it; but still, the warm silk of her skin was a comfort to him. 

‘Thorin.’ 

He opened his eyes some minutes later to see Ithilrian watching him, a faint smile on her face. 

‘Welcome back,’ he replied, trying to conceal the relief in his voice. ‘Did you manage to speak with the Lady Galadriel?’

‘I did.’ Ithilrian confirmed. ‘You still worry,’ she added gently. 

Thorin shrugged uncomfortably. ‘I can’t help it,’ he muttered. ‘I can still remember when… a time when you didn’t come back. When I thought I had lost you for good. Can you truly blame me for being concerned?’ 

Ithilrian laughed softly. ‘No, my heart, I cannot. Besides, I fear I would act in exactly the same way, were our situations reversed.’ 

‘True enough,’ Thorin admitted with a wry smile, squeezing her hands gently. ‘So tell me, ghivashel. What news from Lothlórien?’ 

Ithilrian glanced back up at her husband, her expression clouding anxiously. ‘The news is not good,’ she said quietly. ‘But at least, the matter will soon be taken out of our hands. The Lord Elrond has called a Council. He is summoning representatives from all the Free Peoples of Middle Earth to Rivendell: elves, dwarves, and men alike, from as far south as Gondor and Dol Amroth. We must send a delegation, to speak for both Erebor and Dale.’ 

Thorin raised his eyebrows in surprise. ‘Will you be going?’ 

‘No.’ Ithilrian shook her head firmly. ‘As much as I would love to see Imladris again after all this time, I do not think this is my journey to undertake. Besides, my place is in Erebor, at your side.’ She smiled softly, noting the relief that flickered over Thorin’s face once again. ‘Dear heart, you worry too much,’ she chided him softly. ‘Did you really think I would go gallivanting off into the blue, leaving you all alone?’ 

Thorin shrugged, smiling ruefully. ‘I know how you love to travel. I wondered if your heart had finally had enough of Erebor’s cold stone halls; especially if adventure in the wide world was beckoning.’ 

Ithilrian smiled faintly, leaning forwards to nuzzle her husband tenderly. ‘Even after all these years, you still fear I shall leave you one day,’ she murmured. ‘Foolish dwarf. Can you not see? The Lonely Mountain is my home. It has been for decades. I intend to fight to the death to defend it.’ 

Thorin nodded, unable for a moment to speak. A hot, bright feeling of delight curled itself around his chest, as it did every time she named his mountain _home;_ but at the same time it was overlaid by a wave of anxiety. ‘You are certain that war is coming, then?’ he asked tentatively. ‘Is that what the Lady Galadriel said?’ 

‘Partly.’ Ithilrian nodded decisively. ‘Come, my love. Sit beside me; and I shall tell you everything. All that I know, all that I fear, and all that I hope shall never come to pass. Perhaps then, you will understand.’ 

For the next hour, both elf and dwarf sat together, heedless of the gathering darkness outside Erebor. The sun had long since set, and a wild wind was beginning to lash the rocky mountain slopes, bringing with it a spattering of warm summer rain as the promised storm rumbled in the distance. In a low voice, Ithilrian spoke of the Rings of Power and the Second Age: of their forging, and distribution among the races; and of Sauron’s great betrayal. There, Thorin learned all that he wished to know about the Nazgûl, that foul messenger of Mordor; and about the most dangerous ring of all, the One Ring, Sauron’s own; thought lost in the depths of the River Anduin for thousands of years. 

‘So what are you saying?’ asked Thorin slowly, when Ithilrian paused to pour herself a steadying glass of wine. ‘That you believe something has happened; something to do with this One Ring?’ 

‘Indeed.’ Ithilrian nodded. ‘I have no proof,’ she added, her voice rising with frustration. ‘Nothing to either confirm, or deny, my suspicions. But think about it. We know that the Nazgûl came here seeking urgent information regarding hobbits; more specifically, regarding one Bilbo Baggins. He called him _thief;_ and bid you take from him a ring, to give to Sauron as a token of your fealty.’ Ithilrian smiled grimly. ‘And while we have no intention of doing such a thing, surely his message tells us more than he intended. What is this ring, then, that Sauron has sent his deadliest servants in search of?’ She shook her head. ‘Of all the Great Rings, the Three remain hidden; the Nine the Nazgûl keep; and the Seven are all taken or destroyed. What then is this ring; this so-called trinket that Sauron is seeking so very urgently?’ 

Thorin felt his heart drop like a stone within his chest, finally realizing what his wife was implying. ‘It cannot be any other. It must be the One.’ 

‘Correct. And although it seems impossible to believe, Sauron appears to be under the impression that a simple hobbit - Bilbo Baggins, no less - has somehow come into possession of it.’

‘How?’ Thorin shook his head in bewilderment, ignoring a rumble of thunder that sounded almost directly overhead. ‘It seems beyond belief, Ithilrian.’ 

‘I know,’ nodded the pale elf in agreement. ‘But in truth, whether or not Bilbo has the ring is not my immediate concern. The problem lies with the fact that the Enemy _believes_ he has it. Thorin, at this very moment the Halfling is in dire peril, even if he knows it not.’ 

‘Then we should send him a raven without delay,’ replied Thorin, rising to his feet. ‘We must warn him; and Bofur too.’ 

Swiftly he pulled another piece of parchment towards him, hesitating before dipping his pen and beginning. Ithilrian hovered over his shoulder, nodding occasionally, before leaning down to add her own signature once the letter was done. 

‘We should send this with Ged,’ she said softly, glancing back at the fierce-eyed falcon, dozing on a perch by the doors. ‘He flies faster than any of our ravens.’ 

‘True enough; but Erebor’s birds have greater endurance,’ replied Thorin. ‘Besides, they have made the journey to the Shire on many occasions before. They know their way.’ 

Ithilrian inclined her head, smiling faintly. ‘As you wish.’ She turned, raising her brows interrogatively as a loud knocking sounded suddenly at their door. ‘Enter,’ she called softly. 

‘M’lady, the Elvenking is at the gates.’ A bedraggled-looking dwarven messenger bowed low before her, wiping rainwater from his braids. ‘He says he rode through the storm to be here; and must speak with you most urgently. King Brand of Dale is with him.’

‘Excellent. Please send them up immediately.’ Ithilrian nodded gratefully to the messenger, as Thorin stepped forwards. 

‘After you have done that, take this letter to the ravens,’ he said. ‘Once the storm has passed, send it with our swiftest messenger. It must reach the Shire without delay.’ 

‘Very good, y’majesty,’ nodded the dwarf, taking the message and trotting off. Ithilrian glanced behind her, moving to close the balcony doors. The storm had truly come upon them, and a great deluge of rain was lashing at the mountainside. Clouds of jet black and slate grey boiled down out of the heavens, blotting out the light of the moon and stars as they disgorged irregular peals of thunder which sounded loud enough to tear the air in two. Forked lightning ripped through the lowering vault of the sky, searing the clouds with blinding white lines like the lashes of a great many-tailed whip. Ithilrian halted, both hands grasping the doors on either side of her, unable for the moment to wrench her gaze away from the majesty of the skies.

‘Ithilrian?’ Thorin was at her side. His hand felt warm and comforting at her waist as he came to stand beside her. The elf smiled down at him, even as the rain lashed at her, driven by the howling wind right in through the balcony doors. 

‘You are getting wet, my dear,’ he rumbled, watching her with amusement. ‘You were right about the coming storm. Just a shame the Elvenking had to ride through such horrible weather to be here...’ 

Ithilrian grinned, feeling something of her old wildness rising up inside her, bright and sharp like a tightly coiled spring. ‘I envy him,’ she replied softly, turning her face upwards and allowing the rain cool the sudden flush that rose into her cheeks. ‘Galloping wildly through a storm like this, with the thunder overhead, and lightning flashing all around; what could be finer?’ she added, turning to face her husband. Her eyes shone fiercely, reflecting the jagged lightning that arced across the sky. ‘If we did not have urgent matters to discuss, I would go and stand upon the gates,’ she added. ‘It has been too long since I laughed into the teeth of a storm, Thorin Oakenshield. The sky roars to let us know that it is still alive; and it is only polite to answer.’

The dwarf shook his head in amazement. ‘You are beyond belief,’ he murmured. ‘However did you manage to stay cooped up in a mountain with me all this time?’ He reached out with one hand to smooth her long silver hair; and the tremor that shook his fingers was almost unnoticeable. ‘Thank Mahal you did,’ he added quietly. ‘If what you say is true, then we will have great need of your wildness when war visits us once again.’ 

He turned at the sound of the doors swinging open once more, sighing resignedly as Thranduil swept in. The elf’s pale face held an irritable, haughty expression as he lowered the hood of his sopping wet riding coat. Beside him, King Brand was grinning as he unlaced his oiled leather cloak, dashing rainwater from his hair. Thorin stepped forwards to shake the man’s hand warmly. 

‘Welcome,’ he rumbled. ‘Thank you for coming to us so quickly.’ 

‘It was no trouble,’ nodded the man affably. ‘I was planning to come and see you both in the morning anyway. I had a very unpleasant visitor today.’ 

‘Did you indeed?’ 

All three heads swiveled at the sound of Ithilrian’s voice. Low and mellow it seemed, yet laced with an undercurrent that made Thorin’s blood run hot to hear it. Still she stood by the open balcony doors, facing the three of them, her hands spread wide, while behind her the storm raged. A great sheet of lightning tore across the sky, illuminating her for a moment in a flash of blinding whiteness, as the wind whipped her long silver hair out behind her. 

_‘Cormamin lindua ele lle, Ithilrian.’_ Thranduil took a pace forwards, addressing Ithilrian directly, dipping his elegantly crowned head in respect. 

_‘Hîr vuin Thranduil. Nae saian luume.’_ Ithilrian stepped forwards, allowing the balcony doors to swing shut behind her, blocking out the storm. ‘We thank you for coming so swiftly,’ she added, a smile creasing her face as she too reached out to grasp Brand’s sturdy hand in greeting. The grandson of Bard the Dragonslayer, the current King of Dale looked remarkably like his grandsire, tall and lean, with glittering dark eyes and a ready laugh. He glanced sideways at his travelling companion, grinning widely at Thorin’s expression.

‘A wild night,’ he commented. ‘It must have been something mightily important, to drag us all the way up here on such short notice.’ 

‘Indeed.’ Thranduil had cast off his soaking wet riding coat and was standing resplendent in rich robes of autumnal brown, laced with glimmering golden thread. ‘I received your message,’ he added softly. ‘Is it true? Do the Nine ride again?’ 

Ithilrian nodded, her expression become grim once more. ‘It is true. I was forced to banish one from our gates this very evening.’

Thranduil sighed softly. ‘Then it seems the hour we have long dreaded may now finally be upon us.’ 

King Brand shook his head, glancing between the two elves expectantly. ‘Okay, just for those of us who aren’t a few thousand years old; what on earth is going on? Just what is so important?’ he asked curiously. 

Ithilrian nodded, gesturing towards the table. ‘My apologies. Please, sit down and pour yourself some wine. I shall tell you all I know; and then we shall see what may be done.’ She turned to glance at her husband. ‘Should Fili at least be here?’ she added quietly. ‘He and Kili are no longer children, Thorin. Fili and Kélda will rule this place once we are gone. Surely they must have a voice in our impromptu council.’ 

Thorin nodded agreement. ‘I’ll fetch him.’ Throwing one last irritated look at Thranduil, which the Elvenking pointedly ignored, Thorin left. Ithilrian shook her head, smiling faintly as Brand busied himself with the wine. 

‘You still look much the same as when I saw you last,’ said Thranduil softly. He came to stand beside her, moving slowly, almost tentatively, before switching to speak in low, sibilant sindarin. _‘The passing decades have left you unchanged, Silver Queen. Still you shine like the brightest star in the heavens.’_

‘Thank you.’ Ithilrian dipped her head, acknowledging the compliment, before slipping easily into sindarin as well. _‘Age sits lightly on your shoulders, my lord Thranduil,’_ she added, running a careful eye over the Woodland King’s smooth features. _‘It has indeed been far too long since we last spoke. This is the first time you have entered the mountain since…’_

The Elvenking raised a single, elegant eyebrow. _‘Since I left while you recovered from your wounds after the Battle of Erebor,’_ he finished quietly. _‘Since I ran like a thief in the night, not even knowing whether you would survive your injuries; or whether you would come back from the deathsleep you fell into.’_ He shook his head, a spasm of some long-forgotten pain flickering over his ageless features. _‘For that I am sorry,’_ he murmured. _‘It was ill-done of me. But I believe you understand that I had my reasons for it.’_

_‘I know.’ _Ithilrian smiled gently, laying one reassuring hand on the Elvenking’s arm. _‘I do not hold it against you. And I understand why you had no wish to attend the wedding that followed. It is not my desire to cause you pain, my old friend. But I believe it is time. Time to set aside personal feelings, to face the danger that threatens every single one of us.’_ __

__Thranduil dipped his head courteously. _‘That is why I am here,’_ he replied, a faint smile warming his icy blue eyes. _‘Never have I received so urgent a message, my lady. I rode from my halls with all speed.’_ _ _

__‘And I am most grateful that you did,’ replied Ithilrian, switching back to Westron as the doors swung wide and Thorin reappeared, flanked by Kili, Fili, and his wife Kélda._ _

__‘The little one’s with Tauriel,’ supplied Fili, in answer to Ithilrian’s questioning look. ‘He’s asleep, for now. So, what’s all this about? What’s going on?’_ _

__Thorin scowled. ‘Sit down,’ he muttered. ‘I believe it’s best if I let Ithilrian begin. Then, once all has been explained, we can start deciding what must be done.’_ _

__~_ _

__The hour grew late. The mismatched group talked long into the night. After laying out what she had deduced before them, Ithilrian had been plied with questions by both the younger dwarves and Brand. Willingly she had answered, reaching deep into her memory for information about an age gone past, as outside the storm wore itself into nothing more than a breath of wind and a light spattering of gentle rain. The dawn was beginning to break, clean and fresh, tingeing the pale sky with a faint golden luster._ _

__Eventually, it was decided that Erebor, Dale and Mirkwood would all send a joint delegation to the Council that Lord Elrond had called in Rivendell. Among the dwarves that were selected to go were Gloin and his son Gimli, who was now old enough to travel, and was eager to see something of the world outside the Lonely Mountain. But something that came as a surprise to Ithilrian was the fact that among the Mirkwood travelling party would be King Thranduil’s only son._ _

__‘You are sure of this?’ she had asked him quietly, while the others were busy discussing who would be chosen to represent Dale._ _

__Thranduil had shrugged lightly. ‘Legolas is eager to see more of the world outside our woods, Silver Lady,’ he answered softly. ‘I know that I cannot keep my son bound forever to my side. I cannot deny that I shall miss him sorely, but my heart tells me that he is the right choice for this journey; for what reason, I do not yet know.’_ _

__‘Very well.’ Ithilrian inclined her head in respect for the Elvenking’s decision, before turning her attention once more towards the meeting. Thankfully, it was not long before all plans had been finalized. Ithilrian nodded in satisfaction as she scanned the names listed on a scroll of parchment, trying and failing to stifle a large, cat-like yawn._ _

__‘It is done,’ rumbled Thorin beside her. ‘I will make the necessary arrangements. You should get some sleep, _ghivashel.’_ _ _

__Ithilrian shook her head impatiently. ‘I am fine, Thorin. Do not trouble yourself on my account.’_ _

__A slight smile played over Thorin’s face. ‘Still as stubborn as ever,’ he murmured, placing his hand lightly over hers. ‘I have not forgotten how exhausted you were before this meeting began, Ithilrian; and we have been discussing matters of great weight all night. You must rest, _kurdûnuh._ The mountain will still be standing when you wake.’ He glanced up to find the rest of the small group watching him. ‘Come on,’ he added gruffly. ‘Chambers have been prepared for our guests. You may stay as long or as short a time as you please.’ He glanced around at Thranduil and Brand. The man seemed to be fighting down a fond chuckle, still smiling good-naturedly despite everything. Thranduil also seemed to be watching him; but with a strange, sad smile upon his face. He eyed the Elvenking curiously as they filed out of the chamber one by one, leaving Ithilrian to finally get some rest. The other dwarves retreated back along the corridor, to check in on Young Thorin and Tauriel. Brand swiftly disappeared in the direction of the kitchens, muttering something about food being better than sleep. But the Elvenking did not vanish immediately, as Thorin had expected. Instead, the tall elf walked beside him for some distance as he headed down to the gates, silent and unspeaking, yet still an oddly companionable presence at his side. _ _

__‘I am surprised at you, Thorin Oakenshield.’_ _

__Thorin raised his eyebrows challengingly as Thranduil halted before a low arched gateway. ‘Why is that?’_ _

__The elvenking smiled faintly. ‘Long years have passed since I last trod Erebor’s halls. But while much has remained the same, there is also much that has changed. Your lands outside the mountain are lush and green, with fruit orchards and pastures that brim with life. It is so very different from the cold and forbidding desolation that I remember.’_ _

__Thorin nodded. ‘It is Ithilrian’s doing,’ he replied simply. ‘She was determined to heal all that the dragon had ruined.’_ _

__‘And she has done so,’ replied Thranduil. ‘But it seems that even as your kingdom flourishes, mine is failing. A darkness lies upon the Greenwood still. As the Shadow in the East takes shape, fell poisons pour once more from Dol Guldur. Many paths are now unsafe to tread, even for my people.’_ _

__Thorin shuddered at the memory of his journey through Mirkwood. He could well remember the dank, cold air of the forest, and the looming boughs that seemed to twist and writhe all around him, confusing his senses, leading his feet astray. He glanced up to find the Elvenking still watching him carefully._ _

__‘Yet still you answered our call,’ he said slowly. ‘When Ithilrian sent out her message, we were not expecting you to arrive as swiftly as you did. You must have travelled with great speed.’_ _

__The tall elf shrugged eloquently. ‘The message was most urgent.’_ _

__‘Was it?’ Thorin frowned. ‘What did it say?’ he added carefully. ‘What did she write that brought you here, through the storm with such haste?’_ _

__The Elvenking arched an elegant eyebrow, reaching into his sweeping robes and withdrawing a folded piece of paper. Thorin recognized it at once as the letter Ithilrian had sent._ _

__‘She has not yet taught you to read this script?’ he asked, offering Thorin the parchment. The dwarf shook his head._ _

__‘I can speak a little sindarin now; but I do not know the letters,’ he replied irritably. ‘Ithilrian and I have little time to spare as it is. We have other things to do besides learning one another’s tongue.’_ _

__The elvenking inclined his head. ‘Then I shall read it to you.’ His icy blue gaze softened slightly as he scanned the hastily scrawled lines of elvish. ‘The shadow is falling at last,’ he began slowly. ‘The hour of doom draws closer. Nazgûl are at our very gates, demanding information and allegiances: Sauron has declared himself openly once more. I beg you, hasten to us with all speed. War may soon be upon our lands. If our days are to end in bloodshed, let the Mountain and the Wood stand in defiance one last time; and together, we shall give the Shadow a battle that shall never ever be forgot.’_ _

__A ringing silence fell. Thorin felt his heart pulsing rapidly. There was both fear and desperation in the words that Ithilrian had written; but courage also, and a familiar determination to fight to the bitter end. Pride swelled fiercely within his chest._ _

__‘Her message holds the truth,’ he said slowly, his voice sounding gruffer than he intended. ‘Since the beginning, she has feared the day when Sauron rose to power once more. It is one of the only things I know of that can frighten her.’_ _

__Thranduil tilted his head sideways, watching the dwarf before him with a faint smile upon his face. ‘Fearful she may be, son of Durin; but not for the reasons you suspect,’ he replied quietly. Thorin glanced up, surprised. Gone was the Elvenking’s habitual haughty manner. In its place was an unfamiliar wistful melancholy, which caught the dwarf king completely off guard._ _

__‘What do you mean?’ he asked._ _

__Thranduil slowly shook his head. ‘We are all right to fear the coming Shadow,’ he said softly. ‘We fear that our lands and our people may once more be plunged into war. But I believe that is not what causes the Lady Ithilrian’s hands to tremble.’ He looked hard at Thorin, his steely blue eyes missing nothing, noting the signs of age that had stamped themselves indelibly on the dwarf king’s features. ‘She fears for you, son of the stone,’ he added carefully. ‘For there is one enemy whose relentless advance we are all powerless against. Its name is time; and while it may slide lightly past we of the Elder Folk, it sits heavily upon the shoulders of mortals. And for you and the Lady Ithilrian, it is running swiftly out.’ He turned away, shaking his crowned head slowly, a shadow seeming to pass over his face. ‘That is why she speaks of the ending of days; why she is making certain that your young heir is ready for the throne. She knows that both you and she have little time left upon this earth; and should Sauron send his legions against us, it is likely to be cut even shorter.’_ _

__Thorin shook his head in bewilderment. There was a ringing certainty to the Elvenking’s voice that left him in no doubt that what he was saying was true. ‘How do you know of this?’ he asked slowly. ‘Has she spoken with you in private about such matters?’_ _

__Thranduil smiled sadly. ‘I wish that she would, son of Durin. Fears shared are fears diminished, after all. But alas no, she does not see fit to confide in me. She clutches her sorrow tightly to her chest, like an elfling with a handful of stolen acorns.’_ _

__Thorin sighed wearily. ‘It seems that old habits die hard indeed,’ he muttered. ‘I recall that she did much the same during our Quest.’_ _

__‘Then I wish you luck,’ replied the Elvenking quietly. ‘May the grace of the Valar go with you both, Thorin Oakenshield.’ He paused, tilting his head questioningly at the patter of tiny footsteps._ _

__‘Young Thorin! Come back here this instant!’ A faint but familiar cry came drifting down the corridor, followed swiftly by Fili’s son, giggling and glancing back over his shoulder._ _

__‘Grand-Uncle Thorin! Hide me, quick!’ The young dwarf hurtled towards them at top speed, before pulling up short and squeaking in dismay at the sight of the tall, imposing Elvenking, tumbling to a halt at his feet. Thorin sighed wearily. It would appear the little one had escaped his minders yet again._ _

__‘Well now,’ murmured Thranduil, leaning down to inspect the new arrival. ‘Who are you, little dwarf?’_ _

__‘M’name’s Thorin,’ replied the dwarfling, chewing nervously on his sleeve cuff, his blue eyes wide at the sight of the tall and regal elf lord before him. ‘But everyone calls me Young Thorin, because I’m still small. Who’re you? You’ve got a crown on. Are you another king?’_ _

__‘I am,’ said Thranduil, smiling faintly. ‘And you are a very bold young one indeed.’_ _

__The dwarfling’s face cracked into a smile at that. _‘Khulumê_ says that too,’ he told Thranduil seriously. ‘She’s an elf, jus’ like you. D’you know her?’ _ _

__‘Come along, _abrithê,’_ interrupted Thorin tiredly. ‘No time for games now. Ithilrian is resting; and you should be too. Where’s your father?’ _ _

__Young Thorin wrinkled his nose in disappointment. ‘He’s still talking with mama about boring and serious things,’ he told his great-uncle morosely. ‘He’s a big old grumblyboots today.’_ _

__Thorin rolled his eyes, leaning down to scoop the diminutive dwarfling into his arms. From the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of Thranduil’s amused expression. ‘Come on then, trouble,’ he rumbled, allowing the youngster to wrap his arms around his neck. ‘Let’s go down to the kitchens and see if we can get an early breakfast. With any luck, we’ll arrive before King Brand eats us out of mountain and home. Again.’_ _

__‘Early breakfast! Yehehee!’ The dwarfling wriggled excitedly, latching onto his grand-uncle and gazing up at the Elvenking. ‘Will you come for an early breakfast too, mister?’ he asked eagerly. ‘What do you eat to grow so tall? It is magical elf food from the woods that makes y’so big? Will you let me have some if I’m very good?’_ _

__Thorin stifled a laugh at the bewilderment on the Elvenking’s face. The dwarfling had obviously overcome his initial nervousness, and was merrily plying Thranduil with every question that popped into his little head._ _

__‘No. I believe I shall go now and rest,’ said Thranduil, interrupting the young dwarf’s chattering. ‘Enjoy your breakfast, _ai’atar. Namárië.’_ _ _

__Thorin shook his head, watching the tall stately figure of the Lord of Mirkwood sweep away in a flurry of robes, wincing as Young Thorin’s wriggling foot caught him in the ribcage. _He is right,_ he thought grimly to himself, careful to conceal his inner thought from the dwarfling in his arms. _Thranduil may still be a pompous leaf-eater; but he is right. Ithilrian is worried. More worried than I’ve seen her in many a year._ He sighed, running a hand frustratedly through his grey hair. He would talk to her later, he decided. Right now, there were more pressing matters at hand: not least, the small bundle of energy that had latched firmly onto his braids; who didn’t appear to be letting go any time soon. Shaking his head, he marched off in the direction of the food halls. _ _

___Poor little one,_ he thought glumly, bouncing the giggling dwarfling gently in his arms as they walked. _He has no idea what is about to happen; what darkness may descend upon his safe and happy home. May Mahal guide and guard us all through the trials that will surely come.__ _

__~_ _

__It did not take long for preparations for the coming journey to be finished. A mere two days after the Nazgûl’s appearance at the gates, the Erebor party was ready to set out. Great stores of food had been packed neatly, in bags and on several sturdy little ponycarts. Ithilrian and Thorin went down to the gates to see the travellers off as the sun rose slowly, burning away the early morning mists. Gloin’s young son Gimli was practically bouncing with excitement, eager to get underway. Ithilrian gave Gloin a scroll to give to Lord Elrond when they arrived, before hugging her old friend tightly._ _

__‘Farewell,’ she said quietly, clasping the dwarf’s wrinkled hands fondly. ‘May you have fair weather and smooth paths, _mellon nîn.’_ _ _

__‘Thank you lass,’ nodded Gloin. His fiery red hair had turned almost entirely white with age; but his dark eyes still flashed fiercely, and he tapped the haft of the single-bladed axe thrust into his belt. ‘Don’t you go worrying about us now,’ he added. ‘Any orcs or goblins try to waylay us this time, they’ll get more than they bargained for and no mistake.’_ _

__‘I do not doubt it,’ replied Ithilrian gently. ‘I shall await your safe return. Give my regards to Lord Elrond when you arrive.’_ _

__‘Hmpf.’ The old dwarf huffed knowingly. ‘I’ll let the menfolk do that, if’n that’s okay with you. Those Rivendell elves are a bit too snooty, to my mind. Still, I’ll not deny that a journey will do my old bones some good. I’d sooner be walking in the sun than sitting in it.’_ _

__‘Indeed,’ laughed Ithilrian. ‘It appears that dwarves only grow hardier with age, my old friend. May the grace of the Valar protect you.’_ _

__‘And you too, lass,’ grinned Gloin, turning to stare one last time up at the mountain he called home. ‘See you in a few months,’ he called raising his hand and waving as the travellers set off. The ponycarts creaked into motion, trundling steadily down the path, raising a cloud of dust behind them that hung in the air like a fine autumnal mist._ _

__‘It may be many a long season before we see any of them again,’ murmured Thorin as he stood beside his wife, one hand still raised in farewell._ _

__‘I know.’ Ithilrian sighed wearily and turned away, unable to look any longer. ‘I feel as though I have just lost a limb,’ she admitted quietly. ‘It is hard to see any of our folk leave, Thorin. Especially since we have had no news from Balin, for so long.’_ _

__Thorin sighed deeply, turning to follow his queen back into Erebor’s cavernous depths. ‘He should never have gone,’ he muttered. ‘Durin’s beard, I should never have given him leave to try and reclaim Moria. What was I thinking?’_ _

__Ithilrian sighed sadly, wrapping one slender arm around her husband’s broad shoulders. ‘Do not take the blame upon yourself,’ she told him gently. ‘We both gave his venture our blessing, if you recall. Besides, even if we hadn’t, you know he would have simply gone anyway.’_ _

__‘I know. It doesn’t make it any easier, though.’ Thorin frowned, rubbing a hand over his brow. ‘You never know, perhaps we shall receive news before long. Stranger things have happened, after all.’_ _

__‘Indeed they have.’ Ithilrian smiled fondly, squeezing her husband’s shoulder lightly. ‘Come, my heart. Perhaps a little breakfast will lighten your spirits somewhat. I believe Kili has taken it upon himself to teach Young Thorin how to cook.’_ _

__‘What?’ Thorin’s eyebrows shot up in alarm. ‘Kili can barely cook himself, the rascal. What in Durin’s name is he playing at?’_ _

__Ithilrian chuckled lightly. ‘I believe he is trying to stave off melancholy, _veleth nîn._ There has been far too much of it around of late.’ _ _

__‘Hmpf.’ Thorin snorted skeptically. ‘More like he is trying to eat the pantry bare, Ithilrian. His appetite has only increased over the years; and Young Thorin eats enough for two already.’_ _

__‘He is a growing boy,’ replied Ithilrian gently. ‘He needs the nourishment.’_ _

__‘That’s as may be,’ grumbled Thorin, quickening his pace. ‘Still, I don’t want to see Erebor’s kitchens burned to a cinder because of that half-brained nephew of ours. Come on. Let’s go and see what damage has been done.’_ _

__~_ _

__In order to see off their brave companions, Bombur and the rest of Erebor’s cooks had dismissed the kitchen roster for the day, leaving the vast food halls open to anybody wanting to drop in and prepare something for themselves. Kili and some of the younger dwarves had taken Bombur at his word; and now chaos reigned in Erebor’s halls._ _

__The dwarf prince had set up his own workspace, with Young Thorin seated on the counter; and was attempting to mix up some form of enormous fruitcake. Covered in flour and bumbling about grabbing at ingredients, he was calling out happily to the rest of the dwarves, alternating between asking for advice and offering his own._ _

__‘Come on, don’t be stingy, throw in a few more handfuls of dried plums!’ he called out indignantly. ‘Stop trying to hide that jar, I know we’ve got loads left; and the more plums the merrier, isn’t that right little’un?’_ _

__Young Thorin was certain it was. Waving a stolen ladle as though it were a sword, he issued orders like one born to command. ‘Get more plums in there, s‘more dried peel too! And a big bucket of candied nuts as well, ev’ryone likes candied nuts, right Uncle Kili?’_ _

__‘They certainly do,’ chortled the younger of Erebor’s princes, tipping a large slew of mixed nuts into the massive earthenware bowl. ‘Come on now, little firecracker, we’ve got fruits, nuts, flour, honey… what’s next?’_ _

__Young Thorin began counting off ingredients on his fingers. ‘Um, we got plums, chopped damsons, dried grapes, raspberries, strawberries, er, er…’_ _

__Kili grinned widely. ‘S’okay, we’ll just chuck in a bit of whatever we can find! After all, if we put everything in, that way we can be sure that we’ve left nothing out, right?’ He spun on the spot, reaching for another jar, before catching sight of Thorin and Ithilrian in the doorway, and freezing to the spot._ _

__‘Oh no,’ he murmured, his blue eyes widening at the stony expression on Thorin’s face. ‘Uncle, Auntie… I can explain…’_ _

__The word died on his lips as the rest of the kitchen helpers paused in their tasks. It only took three heartbeats for utter silence to fall, and for all eyes to turn apprehensively towards the King and Queen of Erebor. Kili’s face was a mask of guilt._ _

__Ithilrian stepped forwards. Keeping her expression utterly impassive, she strode with a predatory gait over to Kili’s bowl, before leaning over and dipping a slender finger into the mixture, frowning slightly as she tasted it._ _

__‘Not bad,’ she commented drily. ‘But I think it could use a cupful of last autumn’s elderberry wine. Just for sweetness.’ She flashed a wink at Kili, whose expression of utter bafflement was swiftly replaced by one of delight._ _

__‘Right! You’re right, auntie! Quick, where’s that barrel?’ He dashed off to search for it as Young Thorin chuckled loudly, flinging sticky hands around his great-aunt as she lifted him off the table and into her arms._ _

__‘Just look at you,’ she laughed. ‘By the Valar, you’re covered in cake batter! How did this happen? It looks like you took a nosedive into that mixing bowl!’_ _

__Young Thorin wrinkled his nose. ‘Didn’t dive in, Auntie. I fell. But I ate my way out again, see.’_ _

__‘You… what?’ Ithilrian loosed a long, silvery laugh, glancing back at her husband. Thorin was shaking his head in despair, trying and failing to hold back a laugh._ _

__‘You little terror,’ he rumbled fondly, patting the dwarfling’s sticky braids carefully. ‘Whatever are we going to do with you?’_ _

__‘Dunno,’ replied Young Thorin cheerfully. ‘Prob’ly have to put me back on the table so I c’n keep eating cake mix, Uncle. It tastes far better straight from the bowl, y’know.’_ _

__‘He is right. It does.’ Ithilrian nodded mock-seriously, lowering the tiny dwarfling once again. ‘Very well, _tithen mîn._ Enjoy yourself. But remember to save a slice or two of that cake for us old ones to try later, hmm?’ She shook her head, a slow sad smile creeping over her face as she turned her back on the happy hubbub. ‘Let them enjoy themselves while they can,’ she murmured to Thorin beside her. ‘They are only young once, _a’maelamin._ Besides, soon we may be forced to begin rationing the foodstores, just in case Erebor comes under siege.’ _ _

__‘Agreed,’ breathed Thorin, glancing up at his wife. ‘After all, this mess is easily cleared up later. And who knows; Kili and Young Thorin’s fruitcake might actually turn out well.’_ _

__‘Perhaps.’ Ithilrian sighed softly. ‘I just wish there were something else I could do,’ she added. ‘I loathe being forced to sit here and simply wait for the first blow to fall.’_ _

__Thorin shrugged. ‘We’ve already done what we can, Ithilrian. We’ve sent out our delegates; now it’s all up to them, and to Lord Elrond’s Council. We must wait on their word for our next move against the Shadow.’ He paused, frowning slightly. ‘But that doesn’t mean to say we cannot make some preparations of our own,’ he added quietly. ‘Let’s go back up to the chambers. I have an idea.’_ _

__‘Oh?’ Ithilrian raised her eyebrows interrogatively. ‘And what is that?’_ _

__‘Summon the ambassadors from the other six kingdoms,’ replied Thorin. ‘Let us call upon those oaths and treaties they signed so long ago. For it they decide to renege on them, I would rather know now; instead of when an armed host is knocking at our gates.’ He flashed her a momentary grin as she nodded thoughtful approval. ‘Besides, it will stop you sitting around with a face like thunder until the ravens return with news,’ he added, unable to conceal a chuckle at his wife’s indignant expression; which swiftly softened into a rueful smile._ _

__‘You are right as always, my heart,’ she replied softly. ‘My apologies. Fear of war has always made me grim company. But I like your idea. Come, let us see what can be done to persuade our allies to honor their oaths. And later on, we can serve them all slices of Kili’s fruitcake. Maybe that will help to seal their allegiance.’_ _

__Thorin raised a single skeptical eyebrow. ‘I’m not sure how giving the ambassadors food poisoning will aid us, Ithilrian.’_ _

__The silver elf snorted with laughter, shaking her head in mock-despair. ‘Your nephew’s antics never fail to make me smile,’ she said fondly. ‘Always, whenever I begin sinking into darkness or doubt, you or your family pull my thoughts back to this world. All I can say is thank you; and thank the Valar for the line of Durin. You never know, we may yet live through the coming storm.’ She paused, loosing another low, silvery chuckle. ‘That is, so long as we do not have to eat overmuch of Kili’s cooking.’_ _

__~_ _

__Time rolled on. The long summer ended in a blaze of glory as the season turned towards autumn. Misted mornings gave way to mild days, shortened by scarlet sunsets and nights lit by bright harvest moons. Ripening fruit hung heavy on the boughs of Erebor’s orchards when word from the Council of Elrond finally reached the Lonely Mountain._ _

__Ithilrian sighed heavily, running an irate hand through her silver hair as she reread the missive she had received from Lord Elrond. It told of the deliberations that had been made by the Council; and the final decision that had been made._ _

__‘May the Valar preserve them all,’ she murmured softly, scanning the names of the nine that had been chosen to make up the Fellowship. The names of many she did not know; save for those of Legolas and Gimli, who were accompanying young Frodo Baggins the Ringbearer, to represent the Mountain and the Wood in their march against evil. She closed her eyes tightly. _Would that it had never come to this,_ she thought bitterly to herself. _If only the One Ring had remained forever lost._ She clenched her jaw tightly, willing away the faint prickling of tears that came once more to her eyes. War was brewing. She could practically smell it on the breeze._ _

__‘Sauron has already tried to claim Erebor for his own devices,’ she said softly to herself. ‘He will no doubt try again.’ Her words seemed to hang in the empty chamber, their faint echo fading swiftly as she opened her eyes and glanced around, her gaze hardening, taking in the familiar beloved stone of the mountain she had come to call home. She smiled grimly. _Let him come,_ she thought fiercely. _We repelled his forces once; and we can do it again.__ _

__So it was with great determination that Ithilrian set about making plans for the defense of her home. An early harvest was ordered, with the dwarves helping the Men of Dale to gather whatever crops they could, storing the vast majority of nature’s bounty deep within the mountain’s cool stone caverns, just in case of a siege. Plans were put in place for the evacuation of Dale; for while the city had been restored to its former beauty, it was still far less defensible than the Lonely Mountain. Long she spoke with Lord Thranduil as well, determining the best way that the elves and dwarves could work together against that which threatened them all. Like a gleaming white beacon she strode the mountain paths, clad as always in snowy white and silver; and Thorin was ever at her side. Older he may have been than when he first set out to reclaim his homeland; but the same fire burned fiercely in the dwarf king’s eyes, and the same determination rose up in his heart as little by little, their days grew darker._ _

__News gradually filtered through to Erebor, via their faithful raven messengers: of the betrayal of Saruman, and the battle that was fought at Helm’s Deep, the great fortress of Rohan; of the breaking of the Fellowship, and brave Boromir’s death at Parth Galen. Though they spoke of it only seldom, Ithilrian and Thorin knew that their fate now hung by the slenderest of threads. Should the Ringbearer fail in his mission, and Sauron recapture what once he lost, then all their preparations and all their planning would surely be in vain; for with his old power restored once again, even the united might of all the Free Peoples of Middle Earth would not be strength enough to stand against him._ _

__But for all their vigilance, it took time for the War of the Ring to reach Erebor. Autumn had turned towards winter, and the first light snows dusted the red-tiled roofs of Dale before the long-dreaded news finally arrived. Sauron’s forces were on the march._ _

__Ithilrian received the news first from the Lady Galadriel. One moonless night she was drawn from her slumber, up into the realm where no mortal foot could tread. There she learned that Sauron was planning to launch a great assault upon both Gondor and Erebor. For a burning hatred of Isildur’s fair city still festered in the Shadow’s heart; and if Gondor fell, then surely the rest of the West would follow. Toward that end, he was sending a great force of orcs from the pits of Minas Morgul, led by the Nazgûl, to lay siege to the citadel of Minas Tirith; while in secret, he sent a separate force to take Erebor. For the Lonely Mountain stood as a guardian of the lands to the North; the lands once held by the Witch-King of Angmar. If Erebor was taken, and that fell kingdom rose again, then Sauron’s forces could easily sweep westward and southward, bypassing Gondor entirely, and decimating Eriador and the surrounding lands; even laying siege to Rivendell itself._ _

__So it was with a sense of foreboding that Ithilrian opened her eyes once more, finding herself safe in her familiar chambers. Beside her, Thorin continued to sleep peacefully, his head nestled in the hollow beneath her collarbone. There was no denying that the passing years had aged him. His stern features had weathered like those of a carven statue, and his raven mane of hair had now turned entirely silver. She smiled faintly. _At least now we match,_ she thought wryly, running one tender hand through her husband’s long fall of braids, tracing the line of his cheek with her finger. Older he might be than when first she first fell in love with him; yet still he looked beautiful to Ithilrian’s eyes. _ _

__‘Ithilrian.’ Thorin stirred beneath her touch, his eyelids flickering as he loosed a soft sigh of contentment. ‘What time is it?’_ _

__‘Not yet dawn,’ she replied gently. ‘Go back to sleep, my heart.’_ _

__‘Mmmpf.’ The dwarf king opened his eyes, gazing up at her sleepily. ‘M’awake now,’ he mumbled. ‘Might as well stay that way. Get to spend a little more time with the most beautiful woman under the mountain.’_ _

__Ithilrian chuckled, leaning down to place a kiss on her husband’s forehead. ‘Flatterer,’ she replied softly. ‘Still you say the sweetest things, even after all our long years.’_ _

__‘And why shouldn’t I?’ he replied, grinning lazily up at her, his blue eyes sparkling with mischief. ‘Besides, I don’t hear you telling me to stop.’_ _

__‘As if I would ever do such a thing.’ Ithilrian laughed softly. ‘You keep me feeling young, _a’maelamin._ With you at my side, I feel as though I could do anything.’ _ _

__‘Good.’ Thorin grunted in satisfaction, before rolling over and yawning widely. ‘I wonder what fresh news this day will bring us.’_ _

__Ithilrian shrugged lightly. ‘Who knows? We are in the calm before the storm, my love. Let us pray that it lasts a little longer.’ She pulled herself to her feet, stretching up to her full height before tugging on a dressing robe and glancing fondly back at Thorin. The dwarf had pulled himself into a sitting position, his back against the pillows, and was grumbling lightly to himself as he attempted to comb his fingers through his tangled mane of hair. He glanced up and caught her watching him, smiling ruefully as he attempted to disentangle his braids._ _

__‘I don’t know what you’re laughing at,’ he rumbled. ‘You’d be grumbling too if you had dwarven hair. Bloody nightmare, this stuff.’_ _

__‘I am well aware of that.’ Ithilrian laughed, idly running a hand over her long, smooth fall of silver hair. ‘Fortunately for me, I do not have to suffer the same indignity. I dread to think how long it would take me to comb this mass if it got into the same state as yours every morning.’_ _

__‘Hmpf.’ Thorin had abandoned his braids, and was searching his bedside table for his comb. ‘Where is that blasted thing?’ he muttered. ‘I could have sworn I left it right here yesterday morning.’_ _

__Ithilrian tilted her head to one side, smiling mischievously. ‘I believe the answer to that question is about to arrive,’ she said, turning to face the doors. ‘Unless I am much mistaken, trouble is headed our way.’_ _

__She smiled warmly at the tentative tap at her doors, stepping over to open them. Young Thorin was waiting outside, already washed and dressed for the day, clutching Thorin’s comb tightly in both hands._ _

__‘Good morning, little prince,’ said Ithilrian regally, stepping back and allowing the dwarfling to enter. ‘I see you have something of you great-uncle’s there.’_ _

__Bashfully the diminutive dwarf entered, toddling straight over to the bed and proffering the comb. ‘Sorry I didn’t bring it back last night,’ he mumbled. ‘I only wanted to borrow it.’_ _

__Thorin shook his head, smiling wearily. ‘It’s all right, little one. Just remember to leave it here, next time.’_ _

__The dwarfling nodded eagerly. ‘I will, promise!’ He clambered up onto the bed, gripping tightly onto Thorin’s well-muscled arm. ‘Papa wanted to go down to the gates,’ he added conversationally. ‘He says there’s new folks arrived at the mountain today. Even more than last week.’_ _

__‘Did he indeed?’ Ithilrian raised an eyebrow questioningly. ‘I heard nothing of this.’_ _

__Young Thorin smiled secretively. ‘That’s why I ran here. Nobody told me, I was listening outside the door.’_ _

__‘Oh?’ Ithilrian smiled faintly. ‘Tell me then, what else did you hear? These new arrivals, what clan are they from?’ She glanced back at Thorin, who had finally managed to work the comb through his hair. ‘I thought all the warriors from Orocarni and Dolmed had already arrived,’ she added. ‘Thank the Valar the six clans decided to honor their treaties.’_ _

__Thorin nodded. ‘No small thanks to you,’ he replied. ‘That speech you gave the ambassadors, about standing together in the face of danger, was brilliant.’_ _

__Ithilrian chuckled. ‘I think it had more to do with the fact that you threatened to personally throw them from the mountaintop if they didn’t stand by their oaths,’ she replied drily. ‘Never have I seen the ambassadors move more swiftly. We shall have to remember that for future negotiations.’_ _

__Young Thorin sighed loudly. ‘They’re not dwarves, _khulumê._ They’re all elves, like you.’_ _

__‘Elves?’ Ithilrian’s brows shot up in surprise. ‘I was not expecting to receive any of the woodland folk so soon. We have already laid our plans. What in the Valar’s name is Thranduil playing at?’_ _

__Thorin grunted, levering himself upright. ‘I don’t know, but I intend to find out.’_ _

__They dressed swiftly. Ithilrian’s mind was a whirl. Only last week she had spent long hours with the Elvenking, outlining plans for the evacuation of the Greenwood, should Sauron’s forces make an attack on the forest. It had been decided that all the sylvan folk would come to Erebor, fleeing in advance of any armies that might issue from Dol Guldur, before regrouping and joining forces with the Erebor dwarves and the Men of Dale in a combined counter-offensive strike._ _

___But that’s not due to happen yet,_ she thought to herself anxiously. _Only when the threat appears should the wood elves come to us. What has happened to bring them here so soon? Has the attack come more swiftly than any of us foresaw?_ _ _

__Swiftly she made her way down to the lower halls, Thorin at her side, with Young Thorin trotting behind them, eager to be a part of whatever fresh drama was occurring. Ithilrian had dressed in her habitual white robes and silver crown, while Thorin was ready for anything in his usual heavy mailcoat and tunic. Before they left, he’d grabbed the sheath containing Orcrist, slinging it over his shoulder just in case of trouble. Ithilrian eyed the protruding sword hilt with some small trepidation, hoping fervently that there would be a perfectly normal reason for the sudden appearance of Thranduil’s folk at their gates._ _

__But when she stepped into the main entrance hall, her jaw dropped. For the small army standing before her were certainly not wood elves. Armed and armored for war in gleaming golden breastplates, with long curved swords slung elegantly at their sides, was a full battalion of Lothlórien elves; and standing in the lead, with identical grins on their faces, were her twin nephews._ _

__‘Elladan! Elrohir!’ she cried joyfully, breaking into a run to greet the young ones, pulling each one into a relieved embrace. ‘What in Lady Varda’s name are you doing here?’ she added incredulously._ _

__Elladan laughed, his strong handsome face lighting up like a summer morning. ‘Well, you didn’t think we’d just leave you to face Sauron’s army all on your own, did you?’ He grinned impishly, gesturing behind him. ‘A little surprise from _ada,’_ he added. ‘We passed through the Golden Wood on our way here from Rivendell. The Lady Galadriel sends her compliments.’ _ _

__As one, the Lothlórien elves raised their bows in elegant salute. Ithilrian shook her head admiringly, gazing in open wonder at the stern faces of the elven warriors, resplendent as any host from the Elder Days in their brightly burnished armor._ _

__‘By the Valar,’ she replied softly. ‘Never did I think to see the day.’ She turned as behind her, a small reproachful cough sounded. Thorin was standing watching them, his arms folded, and a wry smile on his face._ _

__‘Greetings, King Under the Mountain,’ said Elrohir, inclining his head towards Thorin in graceful respect. ‘I bring word from Elrond of Rivendell.’ He stepped forwards, presenting Thorin with a sealed scroll from beneath his travelling cloak._ _

__‘My thanks,’ rumbled Thorin. ‘Ithilrian has been hoping you would visit us,’ he added, smiling fondly at the expression of delight on his queen’s face. ‘It is good to finally meet you at last.’_ _

__‘Likewise,’ nodded Elrohir, smiling warmly. ‘I am only sorry we have not been able to come sooner. Orcs and goblins have been massing in the North; their numbers are growing day by day. We and the Dúnedain have been watching them in secret, harassing them whenever we may; but it has become far too perilous to remain any longer.’_ _

__‘So, here we are!’ the irrepressible Elladan interrupted. ‘Come, the boring details can wait until later, surely? It has been centuries since we last saw you, Ithilrian. And you’ve yet to properly introduce us to your charming husband, by the way.’ He chuckled delightedly, dodging the playful swipe that Ithilrian aimed in his direction._ _

__‘Oh, very well,’ sighed Ithilrian, attempting to keep her expression serious but unable to disguise the bubbling mirth within her. ‘My lord and husband Thorin Oakenshield, my I present my nephews: Elladan and Elrohir, sons of Lord Elrond of Imladris and Lady Celebrían of the Golden Wood. Boys, meet the King Under the Mountain.’_ _

__The twins exchanged swift, mischievous glances, before bowing low and chorusing, ‘at your service!’ in imitation of the traditional dwarven style of greeting, before stepping forwards and proffering their hands._ _

__‘It is an honor,’ said Elrohir, smiling warmly. ‘Long have we hoped to meet the mortal that managed to so completely capture our aunt’s heart. We heard much about you from our sister ere we left; from father too.’_ _

__‘And some of it was actually good!’ interrupted Elladan, grinning. ‘You know _ada,_ always complaining about something or other. The fact that he actually had some nice things to say about you is a rare compliment.’ _ _

__‘He did?’ Thorin replied, surprised. ‘That was not what I expected.’_ _

__‘Indeed,’ agreed Ithilrian. ‘I seem to recall that our Company’s time in Imladris was not exactly… well…’ she hesitated, attempting to conceal a chuckle at the memories that welled up within her. ‘We had to sneak out before dawn’s first light,’ she added. ‘Without so much as a farewell. I dare say Lord Elrond was a little… put out.’_ _

__‘You’ve no idea.’ Elrohir rolled his eyes. ‘He still complains about it at times. That, and some of the dwarves’ table manners.’_ _

__Ithilrian nodded. ‘That sounds like my brother-in-law. Never happy unless he has something to quibble over. Perhaps that is why he and Mithrandir get along so well.’_ _

__‘What’s a quibble?’_ _

__A small voice sounded behind them. Unnoticed by many in the great hall, Young Thorin was still hovering behind the gathering, peeping nervously out from behind the dwarf king, curiosity having got the better of his shyness._ _

__‘There you are, trouble,’ rumbled Thorin affectionately, reaching down to ruffle the youngster’s braids affectionately. ‘I wondered where you’d gotten to.’_ _

__Ithilrian smiled warmly. ‘Don’t be afraid, _tithen luin-iaeth._ These are elves from the Golden Wood: the place I once called home, before I married Thorin.’ She reached for the dwarfling, who held up his arms, eager to be lifted. Settling comfortably on Ithilrian’s hip, the little one gazed wide-eyed at the elven warriors surrounding them. _ _

__‘They’re all so bright and tall, _khulumê,’_ he said quietly. ‘Just like you.’ He glanced eagerly around, his gaze finally settling on Elladan and Elrohir, who were both staring at the new arrival in silent, open-mouthed astonishment. _ _

__‘These are my elven nephews, little one. My sister’s sons,’ Ithilrian told him gently. ‘This is Elladan, and Elrohir. Both are great warriors and orc-slayers. Would you like to say hello?’_ _

__The dwarfling stuck out one tiny hand. ‘Pleased t’meet you, mister.’ His wide blue eyes gazed up curiously at the twins, who had been momentarily struck dumb by the appearance of the youngster._ _

__‘What…? Aunt Ithilrian? What magic is this?’ stuttered Elladan, gazing at the tiny dwarf in Ithilrian’s arms incredulously. ‘You… he… a son? You have a son?’_ _

__Ithilrian laughed aloud and shook her head despairingly. ‘By the Valar, did you both leave your wits in Rivendell? No, this is _not_ my son. This is my grand-nephew. His name is Thorin too; so we usually call him Young Thorin, to save confusion.’_ _

__‘I see.’ Elrohir reached out, carefully enveloping the dwarfling’s tiny hand in his own, dipping his head in an elegant half-bow. ‘I am honored to meet you, little Prince Thorin of Erebor,’ he told Young Thorin seriously. ‘There is much of your namesake within you, I deem.’_ _

__The dwarfling flushed happily at the compliment. ‘Um, thanks,’ he mumbled, suddenly shy in the face of such overwhelming scrutiny from both elves. ‘You both look the same,’ he added curiously, glancing between the twins. ‘Why is that? And how do people tell you apart?’_ _

__Elladan chuckled. ‘With great difficulty,’ he replied, taking Young Thorin’s little hand and shaking it warmly. ‘Don’t worry, even our father struggles sometimes. We don’t mind.’_ _

__‘Indeed, we are well-used to it,’ nodded Elrohir encouragingly. ‘Why, at times I even forget my own name, and confuse myself with my brother.’_ _

__Ithilrian snorted. ‘You do not. Elro, stop telling the little one such fibs. He has quite enough bad influences around him already. Speaking of which, let’s get you all settled down; then you can come meet the rest of the family. I have a feeling you will get along very well with Thorin’s nephews, Fili and Kili.’_ _

__‘Durin’s beard,’ muttered Thorin. ‘You’re not wrong about that.’ He beckoned over several official-looking dwarves, who were just hurrying into the hall. ‘See that rooms are found for our guests,’ he instructed. ‘There should be space for the army to be billeted on the Fourth Tier of the citadel, near where the woodland archers are housed. See that food and drink are provided too; as much as is needed. They have endured a long march to be here.’_ _

__‘Thank you.’ A slender, blond-haired elf stepped forward, removing his gleaming helmet and dipping his head courteously. ‘It was indeed a swift march; but the feet of the Elder Folk seldom tire. My name is Haldir, Captain of the Woodguard. All the elves you see here volunteered to come, when news of the falling shadow arrived in Parth Galen. For whether she calls the Golden Wood home or no, the Lady Ithilrian is still dear in many of our hearts. Lothlórien’s youngest daughter has not been forgotten by her kin.’_ _

__Ithilrian shook her head slowly, smiling widely; yet her eyes were shining with unshed tears. ‘Haldir, my old friend,’ she greeted the blond captain warmly. ‘If I had not learned to trust my own eyes, I would scarce believe that you were here.’_ _

__The tall elf inclined his head as Ithilrian reached out a hand to grasp his strong shoulder firmly. ‘It is a delight to see you once again, my lady,’ he said quietly. ‘And if the Lady Galadriel is right, and the Ending of Days is come upon us, then I speak for all who stand here when I say that we shall fight the Shadow unto the bitter end; and there is no place we would rather do so than at your side, under your command once more.’_ _

__Ithilrian nodded. Her throat was too tight to speak. Wordlessly she inclined her head in solemn respect for the pale elf’s words. Her old friend seemed to understand, clasping her shoulder lightly and nodding sadly before turning to follow the rest of his command as the elves were led deep into Erebor._ _

___‘Khulumé?’_ asked Young Thorin tentatively, patting Ithilrian’s silvery hair. ‘Please don’t cry. Why are you sad?’ _ _

__Ithilrian forced herself to smile, mentally chiding herself for forgetting the observant little dwarfling in her arms. ‘Do not be concerned,’ she said softly. ‘Sometimes, you don’t have to be sad to weep, little one. Sometimes great joy, or a deep and long-forgotten memory will cause your tears to fall. You will discover this as you grow older, _tithen-mîn.’_ _ _

__Young Thorin frowned, his wide blue eyes locked onto Ithilrian’s own. ‘I’ll never grow as old as you though, will I?’ he said quietly. ‘You’re older than everybody here, _khulumê._ Are you older than the mountain?’ _ _

__Ithilrian laughed softly, feeling some of the previous tension beginning to ease from her shoulders. ‘I don’t think anybody here is that old, little one,’ she said. ‘Come, let us return to our chambers for breakfast. And after that, would you like to help me show Elrohir and Elladan around Erebor?’_ _

__‘Mmm-hmm!’ The young dwarf nodded eagerly, his previous worry immediately forgotten. ‘I’d like that a lot, great-auntie Ithil!’_ _

__‘Good.’ Ithilrian nodded, lowering him gently to the floor, allowing him to run after Thorin and the elves, watching him tug eagerly on Elrohir’s robe until her nephew noticed him. Without a moment’s hesitation, the tall elf swept the young dwarfling clean off his feet and up onto his broad shoulders, allowing him to wind tiny fingers into his intricate mass of travelling braids._ _

___How small he looks,_ thought Ithilrian morosely, trailing at the back of the group. _How very vulnerable._ She smiled grimly. Already her twin nephews seemed positively smitten with the diminutive prince, joking and laughing eagerly. Little did Young Thorin know that he had just gained a further two protectors; each as fierce as the other, and both feared throughout the Northlands as deadly warriors in their own right. And now that several hundred Lothlórien warriors had joined with the massing ranks of Erebor’s armies, she felt a faint glimmer of something that she had not dared to consider for quite some time. _ _

__Hope._ _

__~_ _

__Their joy was short-lived. Swift on the heels of the elven army came the long-awaited shadow. The first Ithilrian knew of it was the sight of a dark, foreboding cloudbank gathering in the east._ _

__‘What is that?’ she had murmured, shading her eyes with one slender hand and peering into the distance from her balcony._ _

__‘Just a wisp of cloud, surely?’ Kili had replied, glancing up from the game he was playing with Young Thorin. ‘It’s just another winter snowstorm, Auntie. It’ll blow over in no time; that’s if it even reaches us.’_ _

__‘I think not,’ murmured Elrohir, coming to stand beside the grey elf, turning his powerful gaze eastwards. _‘Nâ I onnad,’_ he added softly. _‘Mâb le i nagor._ The shadow falls at last.’ _ _

__Ithilrian nodded. Fear dropped into the pit of her belly like a leaden weight; but even as she set her jaw determinedly, she felt the warm, comforting weight of Thorin at her side._ _

__‘What is it?’ he murmured softly. ‘Act as my eyes, Ithilrian. My sight has never been as keen as yours. From this distance it looks much like any other stormcloud; perhaps a bit wider and darker than usual. But from the look on your face…’ he hesitated, glancing between the two elves. Elrohir’s habitually jaunty expression had hardened, and Ithilrian’s grey eyes were like twin shards of ice._ _

__‘Fell things move beneath that shadow,’ replied Elrohir quietly. ‘Sauron’s orcs have no love of the sun. So he fills the sky with fume and smoke from Orodruin, shielding them from the light, to ease his army’s passage towards us. That is no natural cloud.’_ _

__Thorin frowned, realization dawning. ‘Then… they are coming.’_ _

__Ithilrian nodded. ‘We must send word to Brand and the Elvenking without delay. If the forces of Mordor are already closing on the mountain, the likelihood that the wood elves will face an incursion from Dol Guldur has just increased tenfold.’_ _

__She turned swiftly from the balcony, almost tripping over Young Thorin as she headed towards the table to write her hurried message. ‘Careful, little one,’ she chided the dwarfling gently. ‘Never sit directly behind someone like that. They could step on you, you are so small.’_ _

__‘But I wanted to hear what you were saying,’ pouted the dwarfling. ‘What did you mean, _khulumê?_ What shadows were you all talking about?’ _ _

__Ithilrian hesitated. She knew that the child would have to be told what was happening. She had been avoiding it for a long time now, desperate not to tarnish the little one’s innocence before her hand was forced. But with Sauron’s forces swiftly closing the distance between them, the time had finally come. She glanced towards Fili and Kélda, raising one eyebrow slightly. Kélda nodded firmly, standing up and sweeping over to them._ _

__‘Come along,’ she said firmly, sweeping her protesting son into her arms. ‘Let’s leave the King and Queen in peace for a little while. There’s something your father and I need to tell you.’_ _

__~_ _

__Preparations were made swiftly. Plans that had been months in the making were put into action. Any person unable to fight was led down into the fastness of Erebor’s deepest caverns: namely the very old or the very young, civilians from Dale, women nursing babes or those too old or too injured to wield blade or bow. In the eventuality that the orcs should breach Erebor, the caverns at the mountain’s heart would be the safest hiding place for all those unable to fight. It was also where the majority of the foodstores had been placed, in preparation for a long siege._ _

__‘I’m not going,’ Kélda had told Fili flatly. ‘I’m staying here to fight alongside you.’_ _

__Thorin had shaken his grey head with stern finality. ‘No.’_ _

__Kélda’s eyes flashed furiously. ‘Why am I to be carted off with the children and old ones? I’m just as strong and capable a warrior as any of you.’_ _

__‘That has never been in doubt,’ Ithilrian had said quietly, trying to soothe the angry dwarf’s temper. ‘But what of Young Thorin? You should be with your son, _gwathél._ He needs at least one parent with him; especially should the worst happen in battle…’ _ _

__Kélda snorted impatiently. ‘You mean that if one of us dies, at least there’ll still be one parent alive to bring up your heir?’_ _

__‘Yes,’ said Thorin flatly. ‘I already saw my infant nephews orphaned by Smaug. I will not let it happen to my grand-nephew too. Truth be told, I would be far happier if Fili and Kili went with you as well.’_ _

__Kélda slammed her fist against the unyielding stone angrily, ignoring Fili’s indignant splutter. ‘But I want to fight! I want to defend my home!’_ _

__Ithilrian shook her head. ‘You may still get the chance to,’ she said quietly. ‘What will happen if the battle goes ill, and we are all slain; and the armies of Mordor gain entry to this place? Who will protect the vulnerable, fighting for the lives of those unable to defend themselves? Who will the civilians look to for guidance, should anything go amiss while we are entrenched in battle?’ She reached for the irate dwarf carefully, giving her hand a gentle squeeze. ‘I wish it were not so,’ she murmured. ‘I wish I would take every fighting warrior we have onto the field of battle; for my heart tells me we shall have dire need of each and every one. But I will leave a squad of our finest at your command, just in case.’_ _

__Thorin glanced up at his wife. ‘You made no mention of this to me,’ he rumbled._ _

__Ithilrian smiled faintly. ‘My apologies, my heart. I have had much on my mind of late.’_ _

__Thorin waved a hand. ‘It matters not. It is a good idea.’_ _

__‘Mama?’ said Young Thorin nervously, gazing up at her with wide, anxious eyes. ‘Please don’t send me away. I’m frightened. I want to stay with you.’_ _

__Kélda heaved a heavy, frustrated sigh. ‘It’s all right,’ she told her son. ‘You won’t be going anywhere without me.’_ _

__Thorin nodded. ‘Then it is settled.’ He hesitated, a plan beginning to form in his mind. ‘Gather whatever provisions you need, but do not take too long. Meet me back here when you are ready. There is something I wish to tell you.’_ _

__He waited until the others had all departed before returning to his desk. Reaching beneath it, he pulled at a hidden lever, which allowed a cunningly concealed drawer to slide out from what appeared to be solid wood. He smiled sadly. Within lay two of his most precious keepsakes: the map of Erebor that had guided them on their quest so many years ago; and the key to the hidden door. He took them both, sliding the drawer shut. It clicked smoothly into place once more._ _

__‘We’re ready.’ Kélda stuck her head around the door. ‘What was it you wanted to tell me?’_ _

__Thorin shook his head. ‘I pray it does not come to this,’ he murmured, almost to himself. ‘But dire times call for desperate measures.’ He beckoned her inside. ‘Do you know what this is?’ he added, unfolding the map and laying it before her on the desk._ _

__The dwarf’s sharp eyes narrowed. ‘That is the Lonely Mountain,’ she said quickly. ‘And that writing says…’ she trailed off as realization struck. ‘That is the map you used all those decades ago,’ she added quietly. ‘The one that tells of the hidden passage.’_ _

__‘It is,’ nodded Thorin in affirmation. ‘And this is the key to the door. But remember, from the outside it cannot be seen; and will only open at the last light of Durin’s Day.’_ _

__Kélda shook her head bewilderedly as Thorin folded the map around the key, and placed them both in her hands. ‘I don’t understand. Why are you giving me this?’ she asked._ _

__Thorin hesitated. ‘A great battle lies before us,’ he said eventually. ‘Who knows what the outcome will be? We hope for victory against the Shadow; but bitter experience tells us that not all battles can be won.’ He sighed deeply. ‘Should the battle go ill… should defeat loom large, and the orcs gain Erebor… then please, I beg of you. Use the secret passage. Get yourself and Young Thorin to safety.’_ _

__‘What?’ Kélda’s eyes widened with shock. ‘You’re asking me to run away?’_ _

__‘Yes.’ Thorin’s gaze hardened. ‘Only if all is lost. If the mountain is taken; and our warriors all slain. You and Young Thorin _must_ escape. This may be your only chance.’ _ _

__Warily Kélda eyed the map. ‘Very well,’ she said eventually. ‘I shall take your gift, King Thorin; but I pray to Mahal that I do not have to use it.’_ _

__‘As do we all,’ a soft voice interrupted. Thorin’s head snapped up and around. He had not noticed Ithilrian enter the room. Soundless as a wisp of smoke she had slid through the doorway, and was now eyeing the two dwarves with a gentle smile._ _

__‘A brave gift,’ she said softly. ‘One that is not given, or received lightly.’ She inclined her head towards Kélda. ‘May the Valar watch over you,’ she added. ‘You have more courage than many I know, gwathél. It is one thing to swear to die for a loved one. It is quite a different matter to swear to live for them; and one that is often far more frightening.’_ _

__Kélda nodded. Frowning, she turned away. ‘This is it, isn’t it,’ she said quietly. ‘It won’t be long now till the fighting starts; and all will be decided, one way or another.’_ _

__‘Indeed.’ Ithilrian clasped the dwarf’s strong hands in hers. ‘Farewell, sister,’ she said softly. ‘Farewell, and good luck.’_ _

__Kélda nodded fiercely. ‘The same to you,’ she replied. ‘We’ll see you after the battle, yes?’_ _

__Ithilrian smiled faintly. ‘Of course you will, pretty one. Now go. Your son needs you.’_ _

__With a final nod, Kélda vanished. Ithilrian stood still as one struck into stone, waiting for the sound of their receding footsteps to fade down the hall._ _

__‘Time,’ she murmured softly. ‘Our time is running out, Thorin. Our scouts estimate that the forces of Mordor will be upon us by midday; but already it is as dark as though night were falling.’_ _

__‘Then we still have some few hours,’ replied Thorin. He lowered his voice to a comforting rumble, sensing his wife’s distress. ‘Do not be afraid, my love. It will be all right in the end. We will triumph. You’ll see.’_ _

__‘Will I?’ The elf turned grey eyes towards him. ‘How can you be so certain, my heart? My path has been hidden from me; and all appears utterly dark in the abyss before my feet. I do not know what today will bring: victory, or death.’_ _

__Thorin shook his head ruefully. ‘I do not fear death,’ he murmured. ‘It is the only real certainty any of us ever face.’_ _

__Ithilrian inclined her head. ‘Neither do I, my heart. But I fear for the lives of those I hold most dear. I fear for you, Thorin Oakenshield.’_ _

__Thorin squeezed her hand comfortingly, his throat tightening with emotion as a wave of memory washed over him. ‘I know. But we’ve made the most of it, haven’t we?’ he replied hoarsely. ‘We’ve had six decades together, Ithilrian. And when I think back to our Quest… and to the battle that came afterwards… we are lucky to have had even that.’_ _

__‘You are right.’ Ithilrian moved towards him, lowering herself to one knee in order to tug her husband into a fierce embrace, burying her head in his silken hair. ‘I am being both foolish and selfish,’ she murmured, her voice muffled from where she had pressed herself against him. ‘I am sorry, my heart.’_ _

__Thorin chuckled drily, wrapping his arms tightly around her slender frame. ‘Don’t be,’ he told her gently. ‘I wouldn’t trade our time together for the world.’ He pulled back, so that they were face to face once more, before tracing the line of her cheek with one gentle finger, wiping away the glimmering tears that spilled from her silver eyes. ‘Do you remember when we first met?’ he added quietly._ _

__Ithilrian smiled fondly. ‘I thought… that I had strayed into a dream.’ She leaned forwards to brush her nose gently against his. ‘Long years have passed,’ she added softly. ‘You did not have the cares you carry now.’_ _

__‘I know.’ Thorin lowered his head, pressing his forehead gently against hers. ‘Thank you,’ he added, his voice barely above a whisper. ‘Thank you for giving a tired, broken old dwarf something to live for.’_ _

__Ithilrian swallowed hard, seeming unable to speak. Fresh tears spilled brightly down her cheeks, sparkling like pale jewels in the lamplight. ‘It is I who should be thanking you, my heart,’ she replied hoarsely. ‘And I want you to know… that I do not regret one minute of it. Not one single second. Willingly I accept the fate laid upon me. Happily I shall pay the price for loving a mortal: for loving someone that death can touch. For I love you, Thorin Oakensheild, more than I love anything in this world.’_ _

__‘And I love you,’ he replied tenderly. ‘I have done for many years; and I shall continue to do so for many, many more.’ He smiled softly. ‘Come now, _kurdûnuh,’_ he added quietly. ‘No more despair.’ _ _

__Ithilrian nodded, biting her lip, squeezing her eyes tightly closed in order to stem the flow of tears. ‘No more despair,’ she repeated, in a soft whisper that seemed addressed more to herself than to Thorin. For several seconds she held still, her breathing deepening, a muscle clenching in her cheek as she fought to put a reign on her emotions; before her grey eyes opened once again, fixing Thorin with a hard, bright stare that he had come to recognize._ _

__‘That’s better,’ he murmured. ‘That’s the Ithilrian our kingdom needs right now. The one all orcs should fear to even name, let alone face.’_ _

__‘Indeed.’ She smiled fiercely, raising one hand to brush away her tears. ‘Let us go down to the armory together, my heart. Our enemy will shortly be arriving at our doorstep. It would be terribly rude to face the forces of Sauron ill-equipped for battle, would it not?’_ _

__Thorin snorted with laughter. ‘Terribly rude indeed,’ he replied. ‘Don’t worry; we’ll give those orcs a welcome they won’t forget in a hurry.’_ _

__~_ _

__Darkness fell swiftly. Within the space of a single hour, the bright midday sun was concealed by the deep, unnatural shadow that heralded the approach of Sauron’s forces. The Lonely Mountain was a hive of last-minute preparations; armor buckles were tightened, swords were re-sharpened, arrow fletchings were checked and double-checked. Ithilrian nodded in satisfaction. They were as ready as ever they would be._ _

__Already, the woodland elves had sought the sanctuary of Erebor. Anticipating the blow from Dol Guldur, the sylvan folk had fallen back from the wave of orcs that poured without warning through the old fortress’s fell gates, sniping and harrying their foe on their journey through the forest, before taking to the river to make their way speedily to Erebor ahead of Sauron’s army._ _

__The orcs seemed in no particular rush. The army marched with a dogged, determined speed that seemed to neither increase or decrease. Thousands upon thousands of twinkling torches lit up the deepening gloom like fireflies, as the hosts of Mordor advanced. Ithilrian surveyed them from the battlements with narrowed eyes._ _

__‘They think to scare us with a show of force,’ she murmured to the Elvenking, who had come to stand at her side. ‘Fools. From this distance I can clearly see that the orcs are holding two torches apiece. They think to dupe us into believing they have twice the number that they actually possess.’_ _

__‘Perhaps,’ replied the Elvenking. ‘Still, I am not over-fond of our odds, my lady. They must be ten thousand strong at least. Perhaps more.’ He narrowed his eyes and leaned forwards, resting his folded arms upon the parapet. ‘So, it is before the walls of Erebor that the doom of our time shall be decided,’ he murmured softly. ‘I must confess, I am surprised to find myself here.’_ _

__‘As am I,’ replied Ithilrian, smiling grimly. ‘But nonetheless, I am glad of your company. I have seen your strength and skill in battle. Both will be needed ere the day is done.’_ _

__‘As I have seen yours,’ replied the Elvenking courteously. ‘But we must not be reckless. There are still some soldiers within our ranks who have not yet seen true war. Many of the men of Dale and the younger dwarves from distant clans particularly.’_ _

__Ithilrian nodded thoughtfully. ‘They will all be tested in fire soon enough. This will be a battle to end all battles, my friend. I can feel it.’_ _

__Thranduil inclined his head in agreement. ‘So can I.’_ _

__Silently they watched the host draw nearer. Ithilrian clenched her jaw, keen eyes piercing the darkness, watching for any hidden maneuvers or trickery from the orcs. But they appeared to simply keep coming, wave after wave of them pouring silently into the Erebor valley. The only sound she could hear was the clink of metal as weapons were drawn on both sides._ _

__The larger part of the dwarven armies were waiting behind the sealed gates. The elven archers she had commandeered to line the battlements in rows three deep, with more lined up within the courtyard, ready to fire over the wall. She knew that for the first stage of the battle at least, her bowmen would have a chance to thin the enemy ranks significantly, before they were forced to fight hand-to-hand._ _

__She glanced around approvingly. Erebor made a brave sight. Rearing high over the landscape in solitary splendor, the mountain’s snow-capped peak seemed almost to glow in the light of the advancing torches. The black cloud of Mordor had entirely covered the sky, masking any sight of the sun; but despite this, or perhaps because of it, Ithilrian knew that many gazes within the mountain were turned towards her._ _

__Not for nothing was she known as the Twilight Star of Erebor. Brightly she shone through the gloom, catching the eye of any who stood near, clad once more in gleaming silvery armor. Her long white hair fell in a smooth pale wave down her back, and upon her head she still wore a glittering silver crown. The shards of diamond seemed to shine with their own pale light in the gathering dark._ _

__‘It will not be long now,’ she murmured to Thorin. The dwarf king stood beside her, clad in his own brightly burnished mail, with Orcrist slung easily over his shoulder._ _

__‘I know.’ The dwarf king narrowed his eyes, peering out at the steady flood of orcs that were still filling the Erebor valley. ‘They carry many torches,’ he added. ‘But if this is to end in fire, then we shall all burn together.’ His voice was a low, fierce rumble that sent a shiver down Ithilrian’s spine._ _

__She smiled. ‘I could not have said it better myself,’ she replied softly. Thorin took a step back, noticing how his wife’s eyes were glittering in the darkness; for now that her foe was finally approaching, Ithilrian felt no fear or trepidation; only rage. She held her sword tightly in one hand, trying to keep a lid on the anger that was rising swiftly within her._ _

___These creatures are coming to invade my home and murder my people,_ she thought grimly. _Fools. They shall learn that the lives of the Erebor folk are dearly bought indeed._ _ _

__Pace by pace the legions of Mordor drew closer. Soon even Thorin was able to pick out individual orcs from the massed ranks; cruel, vicious beasts, their claw-like hands tight upon a variety of ugly weapons, the torchlight playing hideously over their scarred, snarling faces._ _

__‘Sauron has not held back,’ breathed Thorin. ‘Surely he must have grown stronger than we ever imagined if he can afford to send such legions against us, and still pitch an army against the men of the South.’_ _

__Ithilrian nodded silently as her thoughts turned momentarily away from the oncoming battle. Where were her young friends Legolas and Gimli now? Had they made it into the South, towards Gondor? Were they standing upon the battlements of Minas Tirith even now, facing down a similar sight as she and Thorin? Were they safe? Were they even still alive?_ _

__With a shake of her head, she dismissed that final thought. Of course they were still alive. They had to be. Legolas was just as skilled in battle as his father; and Gimli son of Gloin was nigh indestructible when he had an axe in his hands. She smiled fondly. _May the Valar preserve them, wherever they may be,_ she thought to herself; unaware that at the exact same moment as the orc legions advanced on Erebor, another host of Mordor had already crossed through ruined Osgiliath and was now massing in ranks upon the Fields of Pelennor. _ _

__The orcs drew closer. As a seething mass they appeared in the valley, like a great swarm of black insects, crawling ever nearer to the Lonely Mountain’s ponderous bulk. Ithilrian tightened her grip on her sword. ‘What think you?’ she murmured to Thorin. ‘Shall we order the archers to open fire? The front ranks are well within bowshot by now.’_ _

__Thorin hesitated. ‘I think we should wait,’ he replied, scanning the valley below carefully. ‘Let us see what they have planned first. If it is a simple forward rush, then the archers should have easy targets. But if there is any trickery being devised down there, I want to know.’_ _

__‘Very well.’ Ithilrian twirled her sword impatiently, watching the army with eyes that gleamed in the darkness like twin shards of tempered steel. ‘But I shall not wait forever, my lord Thorin.’_ _

__‘You will not have to.’ Thorin stepped up, breathing deeply, before bellowing a challenge down to the advancing army. ‘Halt! Who are you, to come before Erebor armed for war?’_ _

__A fell laugh was his answer. The massed ranks parted; and through them rode a giant orc-chieftain, astride a great black warg, bearing an enormous bronzed shield and spear._ _

__‘Fool! Old fool!’ the orc sneered. ‘You turned aside the hand of Sauron when it was offered to you in friendship. Now all will pay the price for your stupidity!’ He laughed cruelly, waving his spear; and at his signal the orcs beside him gave a great yell and brandished their weapons wildly, before stampeding eagerly towards Erebor’s great gates._ _

__Ithilrian smiled grimly as she snapped a stern command. ‘Archers! Send these foul creatures to the Abyss!’_ _

__At her cry, the sky was suddenly filled with the zip and zing of arrows, sleeting down like deadly rain upon the charging battalions. Orcs fell in droves, pierced by both grey-fletched and green-fletched shafts, as at Thranduil’s word the sylvan elves added their own volleys to the might of the Lothlórien archers._ _

__Ithilrian nodded in grim satisfaction. Not for nothing was her people’s archery prowess spoken of throughout Middle Earth. Her palms itched for her bow, but she held steady, sword in hand, keen eyes scanning the battlefield. Already, dead and dying orcs littered the Erebor valley._ _

__Battle was joined as a hail of black-feathered arrows flew upwards, clattering against the parapet. The orcs were retaliating. Several elves fell slain._ _

__‘Down!’ bellowed Thorin in warning. ‘Keep your heads down, everyone! Don’t give them any easy targets!’ He stepped backwards as a wave of orcs sprang forwards with a bloodcurdling yell, whirling grappling hooks and hauling forward several sturdy siege ladders. It wasn’t long before the defenders were kept extremely busy, either cutting the ropes of the grappling hooks wherever they landed, or fighting the orcs that sprang from the ladders. Behind the solid battlements the dwarves had the height advantage, invisible to the archers below as they wielded their battleaxes with professional ease in the confined space. Orcs shrieked and wailed in panic when they were knocked from the wall, as the ladders were shoved down onto the waiting masses below with a bone-shattering crunch._ _

__‘Is this it?’ said Ithilrian scornfully, gesturing for the elves whose arrows were spent to fall back, allowing those with full quivers to step forwards and take their place. ‘Is this Sauron’s grand plan to take the Lonely Mountain?’_ _

__Thorin snorted contemptuously. ‘They’re bringing up some form of battering ram as well. Looks like it was made from the trunk of a fallen tree.’_ _

__Ithilrian raised a single eyebrow disdainfully at the sound of a distant _thump_ as the ram carriers thudded their burden into Erebor’s reinforced gates. ‘I barely even felt that,’ she murmured. ‘They can keep battering away with that ram until doomsday; those gates are far too sturdy. It will take more than half a treetrunk to break them.’ _ _

__Ithilrian was right. She knew it; but more unfortunately, so did the Lieutenant of Mordor. The ram, the siege ladders; all were mere distractions, designed to keep the defenders occupied while he set his plans in motion. For while the great gates of Erebor were as strong as the combined craft of elves and dwarves could devise, it was still the key; the weakest point in the otherwise impenetrable mountain fortress._ _

__War drums rolled. From within the gathered mass of the army, a great war engine crawled forwards. Drawn by mountain trolls and guarded by warg-riders, it soon revealed itself to the defenders; and Ithilrian’s breath caught in her throat when she recognized it for what it was._ _

__The enormous contraption was another battering ram; but one of gigantic proportions. No simple sawn-off treetrunk was this, such as the Uruk-hai had used to breach the gates at Helm’s Deep. Deep within the heart of Barad-dûr this ram had been forged, sister to the great and powerful Grond, that even now smote the gates of Minas Tirith. But while Grond had been fashioned into the form of a ravening wolf, its partner had been hammered into the shape of a vast iron dragon. Smaug was its name: a cruel jest of Mordor, to rekindle life into an old name that had already brought such ruin and death upon Durin’s sons._ _

__Above the gates, the resistance was still fierce. Arrows from both sides whined through the darkness, punctuated by screams and the occasional crash of a falling siege ladder. But those beside Smaug heeded them not; as inch by inch, the great ram crawled forwards. Upon its steel and iron housing no fire could catch; and no barb could scratch its sides. A hellish fire burned within the dragon’s open jaws, and smooth metal scales covered the main bulk of the ram, inscribed over and over with marks of the black speech: words that spoke of misery, pain and despair._ _

__‘Aim for the trolls! Kill the trolls!’ cried Ithilrian, her voice shrill with panic, watching with wide eyes as the great mountain trolls heaved and tugged the ram into position with agonizing slowness. But even as the archers began to concentrate their fire, and several of the giant mountain beasts fell slain, a great roar leapt from the throats of the hosts of Mordor. The ram was in place._ _

__The drums rolled wildly. Vast hands seized the chains that held the iron dragon, swinging it with dreadful strength at Erebor’s carven gates. A deep _boom_ echoed across the valley, reverberating through the very mountain itself. But the stone and steel gates withstood the crushing blow._ _

__‘Durin’s beard,’ swore Thorin from his position atop the battlements. He knew they were powerless to prevent the ram from striking again. ‘Everybody down! Off the battlements, now!’ he bellowed, unsheathing Orcrist and running for the steps. He knew that should the gates be breached, the whole parapet would likely come crashing down._ _

__Three times the great ram struck; and upon the third blow, the gates finally crumbled. With a terrible, rending crash they fell inwards from the impact, splintering wide, as the hosts of Mordor cheered wildly. In they poured, towards the shattered gates, like a vast black tide seeping through a damaged sea wall. Erebor was breached._ _

__~_ _

__The fighting raged throughout the day. The battle spilled out onto the valley floor, as elves, men and dwarves alike made charge after charge, desperate to keep the enemy from gaining the inner recesses of the mountain. Already the dwarven engineers had been at work behind the lines, collapsing the largest of the statues that lined Erebor’s impressive entrance hall, effectively blockading the passageways that led deeper into the mountain._ _

__But still the orcs came, despite the vast number that already lay dead. Thorin passed a hand across his brow, wiping away the blood and sweat, feeling exhaustion tugging deep inside his bones. _We cannot hold much longer,_ he realized with a deep, gut-wrenching horror. His forces were fighting bravely; but in the initial panic that had come from the breaching of the gates, their armies had become separated. He stood in the midst of a legion of dwarves and men amid the ruins of the great gates, stolidly hacking and slashing with Orcrist against the dark tide of enemies that threatened to overwhelm them at every turn. Ithilrian had been swept out into the valley below, with her regiment of Lórien elves. Occasionally Thorin caught a glimpse of her in the distance, still shining like a star amid the gloom. The elves were making the most of having the advantage of space; alternating between slicing through the orc ranks with their longswords, before falling back and hailing deadly arrows into the oncoming legions. _ _

__But it was not enough to prevent the orcs from pressing madly into the narrow space afforded them by the ruined gates. Thorin stood alongside King Brand of Dale, back to back as they fought to stem the oncoming tide. Their numbers were too few; and the enemy was too many. Men and dwarves alike were brought down by cruel blades as the orcs pressed closer. Beside him, Brand gasped with pain as a spear found its mark in his side. He slumped to one side, his face creased in agony; but Thorin could do nothing to save him as the spear drove in again; and the King of Dale fell slain at his feet. He cried out in rage and grief, spinning to confront the spear-wielding orc: the leader of the pack, the lieutenant of Mordor._ _

__Despite his weariness, Thorin sprang forwards, sword upraised; but the blood-strewn rock was slippery underfoot, and the great orc easily parried his clumsy swing. He brought up his shield, deflecting Thorin’s next blow, before using his greater height to spring down upon his enemy, thrusting forwards with his spear. Thorin dodged to one side as the spear drove harmlessly past, swiping at his foe’s exposed neck as he did so; but the orc simply laughed, leaning easily away from the blow._ _

__‘You are old, dwarf-king,’ the creature snarled maliciously. ‘Old and slow. You have lived too long already. I shall give you the death that you deserve!’_ _

__Bulling forwards, he swung out viciously with his shield. Thorin was knocked from his feet. Lying on the blood-slicked stone, utterly winded, he could only watch in horror as the orc raised his spear high._ _

__But even as he drove the weapon straight at Thorin, a wild yell came from behind him; as Fili son of Víli hurtled forwards, smashing into the orc like a juggernaut. The blow that had been aimed at Thorin’s heart went wide; but still it fell, striking the dwarf king through the gut instead of the chest. Crimson blood began to seep into the stone._ _

__‘Come on, you bastard,’ snarled the furious Fili, snatching up Orcrist from where it had fallen from Thorin’s faltering grasp. ‘Come on and finish it!’_ _

__The dwarf prince parried the orc’s initial spearthrust and brought his own blade into play. Back and forth they dodged across the great hall, heedless of all other enemies as they clashed, steel singing against steel to provide music for the dance of death. Dwarf prince and orc chieftain, they matched each other blade for blade, ducking and weaving, Orcrist’s deadly point flickering, seeking an opening. The orc rushed his smaller opponent; dropping the shield and gripping the spear tightly with both hands he battered the young dwarf into a crouch. With a swift sweep of his blade, Fili cut across his adversary’s knees, forcing him to stagger back. They locked blades in the center of Erebor’s ruined hall, sword hilt against spear haft, as each strove wildly to gain the upper hand. Panting and gasping, eye to eye, the combatants swayed, their feet scrabbling for purchase on the blood-slicked floor._ _

__Without warning, the orc dropped his head to one side, biting savagely into Fili’s exposed neck. With a roar of pain the dwarf prince lashed out, his hand locked around the sword haft, punching the orc solidly in the eye. The creature’s mouth fell open and he staggered backwards, stars bursting in his vision; and it was the moment Fili had been waiting for. Swift as a striking snake he brought Orcrist up and around in a great sweeping stroke, bellowing as he did._ _

__‘For Erebor!’_ _

__The great sword flashed once; and the orc chieftain toppled to the ground, headless. A roar of triumph went up from the defenders; and a wail of despair came from the remaining orcs. Now that their leader was dead, and the larger part of their army was slain, the orcs began to lose heart; but it was as though fresh vigor flowed through the veins of the defenders. They grouped behind Fili as the dwarf prince led a counter-charge, smashing through the shattered remnants of the gates and plowing into the remaining orcs in the valley._ _

__Behind them, Thorin lay. He could feel pain, feel the blood still seeping from his wound, pooling crimson around him as he stared up at the carven vault of the ceiling. Dimly he was aware of hands on him, of Kili’s urgent voice as, with great care, he was lifted up and borne from the battlefield._ _

__Outside the mountain, the tide of battle was turned, and defeat loomed large for the hosts of Mordor. Spotting Fili’s charge, Ithilrian had acted swiftly, grouping what was left of her ragged army around her and leading a second charge, smashing into the rear of the orc host with devastating force. Beside her were Elladan and Elrohir, their twin blades flashing brightly; and before the sons of Elrond and the daughter of Galadriel, none could stand. Orcs ran shrieking in every direction, desperate to escape the grim-faced warriors that closed in around them._ _

__Before long, it was all over. The bodies of the slain littered the ground like autumn leaves as, gradually, the fell cloud that had hovered over the mountain began to disperse. A faint nose, like the ghost of a distant cry seemed to come shrieking over the mountain, borne on the wind; for at that very moment, in the far fields of Pelennor in the South, the Witch-King of Angmar was slain by the hand of Éowyn, daughter of Éomund; and thus a great evil passed from the world._ _

__But the beleaguered forces of Erebor knew nothing of this. All they knew was that the clouds above them seemed suddenly to disperse as the wind blew from the west; and once more they could see the brightness of the winter sky, the wisps of feathery cloud that yet hung high in the air, and the crimson glow of the westering sun as it lowered towards the distant horizon._ _

__Wearily, Ithilrian lowered her sword and surveyed the valley around her. What remained of the orc army had fled wailing into the east, running as fast as their legs could carry them. She had no desire to pursue them further; utter weariness consumed the silver elf as she gazed tiredly around._ _

__‘Where is Thorin?’ she said quietly. ‘Where is my husband?’_ _

__Limping slightly and gasping for breath, Kili ran up and grasped her bloodied hand. ‘Auntie, you have to come quickly,’ he gulped out. ‘It’s Uncle. He’s hurt. The healer says he might have only minutes left...’_ _

__The rest of the dwarf’s words were lost as Ithilrian took to her heels and ran. Heedless of her injuries, of the cries of the wounded all around, she sped across the valley towards Erebor._ _

__‘Wait! Auntie, I’m coming too!’ called Kili, as he tried to force his exhausted limbs to keep up with the silver elf. But nothing in Middle Earth could have kept pace with Ithilrian at that moment. Fear lent wings to her feet as she skidded through the mountain’s shattered gates. She did not even need to speak; solemn-looking dwarves pointed her towards the small side room where they had carried the king._ _

__‘Thorin!’ she gasped. ‘Thorin!’ Her sword dropped to the ground with a clang as she hastened to his side._ _

__The dwarf king had been laid out on a narrow bed. The healers had tried their best; but in vain. The orc’s spear had already done its deadly work. Thorin Oakenshield was dying._ _

__Ithilrian’s heart twisted agonizingly inside her as her husband groaned in pain, bright blood already staining the clean sheets. His breath was coming in shallow, unsteady gasps as she ignored the healers and dropped to her knees beside his bed, grasping his hand tightly in hers._ _

__‘Thorin,’ she murmured painfully, her voice catching in her throat. ‘Thorin.’_ _

__‘Ithilrian,’ he replied, his voice no more than a ragged whisper. ‘Thank Mahal you’re here.’_ _

__She smiled despite the tears that rose unbidden. ‘I am sorry, my heart. The tide of battle swept me far into the valley,’ she replied haltingly._ _

__‘It’s okay. You’re here now.’ Thorin’s breathing was unsteady. ‘I’m sorry, Ithilrian,’ he added hoarsely. ‘I don’t think… I’ll be recovering from this one.’ He coughed painfully. ‘Ithilrian, I’m sorry… sorry I couldn’t…’_ _

__‘No,’ she whispered, her voice breaking, ignoring the tears that were threatening to fall. ‘Thorin, please don’t leave! Don’t go where I can’t follow!’_ _

__‘Ithilrian.’ His hand tightened around hers; and even with the shadow of death hovering above him, his face creased in a gentle smile. ‘It’s all right, my love. Don’t be afraid.’ He grunted in pain, wincing yet still managing to smile, keeping his blue eyes fixed on her all the while. ‘Look after my nephews?’ he managed to say, the breath rasping painfully from his lungs. ‘Especially Fili. He will… have great need of your strength… to take up his duties as King.’_ _

__‘I will,’ she whispered fiercely. ‘I shall watch over them until my final breath; I swear it.’_ _

__He nodded slowly. ‘Thank you,’ he managed to reply. ‘Ithilrian, I… I have to go now, I think. I am running out… out of time.’ He squeezed her hand tightly. Ithilrian could feel her flesh bruising beneath the strength of his grasp; but it mattered not. Nothing mattered any more. Her heart curled itself into a fist and began hammering wildly at the inside of her chest._ _

__‘I never wanted it to end like this.’ Ithilrian’s words fell from her lips, hoarse and bringing fresh tears to her eyes; which by sheer dint of willpower she did not allow to fall._ _

__‘Nobody ever does.’ Thorin smiled faintly, his breath coming ever more shallowly. ‘Be brave, _kurdûnuh._ And know that… that when the time comes for you to go to the sea…. I will be waiting for you on the shore.’ _ _

__His eyelids fluttered, closing briefly before opening once more. Ithilrian could barely speak. She turned her head, addressing the healer hovering at the end of the bed, although she kept her eyes fixed upon Thorin’s._ _

__‘Send for the princes,’ she gritted out, her voice low and thick with grief. The healer nodded, vanishing momentarily, as within seconds Fili, Kili, Kélda and Young Thorin spilled through the door._ _

__‘Uncle!’ cried Fili, his voice unsteady, dropping to his knees beside the bed. ‘No, no you can’t die! Not now!’_ _

__‘I’m sorry Fili.’ Thorin managed to say, his voice barely above a whisper. ‘You will make… a fine king. I’m just sorry… I won’t be here to see it.’_ _

__‘No,’ mumbled Kili, his eyes wide with horror. ‘No, don’t say that!’ He stared beseechingly at Ithilrian. ‘Use your magic, Auntie,’ he begged her. ‘Please, do something! Save him!’_ _

__Ithilrian set her jaw, fighting against the tidal wave of misery growing inside of her. ‘Not this time,’ she murmured. ‘I am sorry, Kili. He is dying. There is nothing I can do.’ She gripped Thorin’s hand tightly, willing herself to remain strong, as he had asked._ _

___‘Khulumê,_ please make it stop,’ came a small, gulping voice. Young Thorin had squirmed out of Kélda’s arms, and had clambered up onto the pale elf’s knee. His face was wet with tears. ‘I don’t want him to die,’ he mumbled. ‘I don’t want this to be the end!’ _ _

__‘The end?’ Ithilrian said, forcing herself to smile as she gathered the tiny dwarfling into her lap, trying to keep her voice steady. ‘Be brave, little one. This is not the end. Death is simply another path: one that we all must take, sooner or later.’_ _

__She spoke with care to the dwarfling at her side; yet still she did not turn her gaze from Thorin once, whose beautiful blue eyes were finally beginning to cloud over; yet still they remained fixed upon her._ _

__‘The grey rain curtain of this world rolls back, and all turns to silver and glass,’ she continued, steadfastly ignoring the way her voice shook. ‘And then… then you see it.’_ _

__‘See what?’ pressed Young Thorin, his voice hiccupping. ‘Ithil, see what?’_ _

__Ithilrian forced a smile through her grief. ‘White shores,’ she murmured, tightening her fingers around Thorin’s hand, even as she felt his grip beginning to loosen. ‘And beyond... a far green country, under a swift sunrise.’_ _

__‘Well that… doesn’t sound… too bad,’ mumbled Thorin, as fresh dark blood seeped into the sheets beneath him and the breath wheezed painfully from his failing lungs._ _

__‘No, my love,’ Ithilrian whispered. ‘Not too bad at all.’ She held her breath as, with one final, gentle gasp, Thorin’s eyes fluttered shut. For a moment, silence fell in the chamber, as Ithilrian listened in vain for a heartbeat that would never sound again._ _

__‘Thorin,’ she murmured, feeling her husband’s hand slacken entirely around hers. _‘Thorin!’_ _ _

__But it was no good. His spirit had finally departed: the King Beneath the Mountain was dead. Ithilrian could take it no more. With a gentle, creaking _crack_ that sounded sickeningly loud in the horrified silence, the silver elf’s ancient heart broke. _ _

__‘Don’t leave me,’ she whispered, as sob after sob wracked her narrow frame. ‘Don’t leave me here all alone.’ Wave after wave of agony flooded through her; but she heeded it not, lowering her head to nuzzle gently against Thorin’s cheek one last time, before loosing a long, low moan of sheer misery. Hot tears flooded her eyes as Young Thorin let out an unhappy wail, clambering up to the pale elf’s shoulder and throwing his arms around her neck, trying to offer all the comfort his tiny body could give; as though through sheer dint of effort he could halt the flow of tears that coursed like a river down the pale elf’s cheeks._ _

__‘Auntie,’ whispered Kili, his voice hoarse. ‘Auntie, come away, please. There’s nothing more we can do.’ She felt his hands at her shoulder, surprisingly gentle, pulling her away from her husband’s corpse._ _

___He is right,_ she thought dimly. _There is nothing for me here; only death._ In a haze of misery and pain she found herself led away by gentle hands. Low voices were murmuring all around her, and she felt rather than saw the familiar, comforting presence of her nephews as she was taken up to her chamber. The last thing she heard was the quiet voices of Kili and Tauriel as a cup of something sweet and pungent was pressed to her lips, before she fell into the blessed relief of a deep, dreamless slumber. _ _

__~_ _

__So passed Thorin, son of Thrain, son of Thrór; and so it was that as the Fourth Age of this word dawned, Fili, son of Víli and Dís, became the next King Under the Mountain. A brief, solemn ceremony was held so that the remaining peoples of Erebor could honor their new king; and pay their respects to the one just passed._ _

__Ithilrian was well enough to attend the ceremony, passing over her crown to Kélda in person; but no longer did she dress in the sparkling white gowns and glimmering silver robes that Thorin had so loved to see her wear. Deep, dark grey and black was her raiment now; and she often went hooded and veiled, so that those who saw her murmured amongst themselves that the light of the Twilight Star had finally gone out._ _

__They laid Thorin with reverence in the ancient tombs of Erebor. His resting place was carved from the very living rock, and Fili placed the great sword Orcrist upon his breast, so that he might lie as an eternal guardian of Erebor, sleeping deep within the heart of the mountain he had loved. Ithilrian waited at the head of the tomb, heavily robed and veiled, as a procession of dwarves passed in mourning. In her hand she held a single snowdrop; the only flower to be found on the harsh mountain slopes, pushing up from beneath the winter snows._ _

__Only after the final dwarf had passed did she lean down and place the bloom carefully in her husband’s folded hands; before returning to the foot of the tomb and kneeling, her head sunken in grief, as dwarven stonemasons sealed Thorin Oakenshield into his eternal rest._ _

__Had it not been for Young Thorin, she would most likely have remained there. The diminutive dwarfling was a near-constant presence at Ithilrian’s side during the weeks following the battle. Having been warned that his favorite great-aunt was unwell, the little one had since become fiercely protective of her. He had not been told in so many words that the silver elf was finally fading; but still, he seemed well aware of the fact nonetheless._ _

__For elvish hearts are strange things; and do not give up their burden of life so easily. Even cracked or broken by pain and grief, still they continue to beat, for a little while: fitfully, and not well, but enough to keep a soul tied to a body for a small span of time._ _

__So it was with Ithilrian. No longer could she run or climb like she used to; no longer was she the lithe, agile figure that had leapt up Erebor’s stone steps with graceful ease. She moved only little; and when she did walk, it was with slow, faltering steps as her heart twisted and juddered within her. The rest of the elves always stood aside reverentially to let her pass, murmuring softly in their own tongue. _Hûn-dínen_ they called her: she whose heart had been silenced. She was looked upon with pity, but with great respect as well; for as the days stretched into weeks, and the weeks into months, still Ithilrian lingered, despite the pain that at times consumed her entire body; and despite the constant, lonely ache inside her chest. She was keeping her final promise. She was taking care of Thorin’s nephews._ _

__~_ _

__A year passed. Despite the hard winter, and late blooming of spring, the Lonely Mountain began flourishing once more. Great had been their losses in that final battle; but greater still was their joy when news came that Sauron had finally been defeated; that his dark tower had fallen and his fell spirit was vanquished, never to return._ _

__A great feast was planned to celebrate the year anniversary of King Fili’s ascension to the throne. For when he was first crowned, there had been none within the mountain in the mood for celebrating; and the young king’s coronation had been an entirely solemn affair. But once time had dulled the sting of loss, and once the great battle was little more than a distant memory for most, Erebor was desperate for any excuse to throw a party._ _

__Barrels of Dale ale and wine were rolled in from the town, and Erebor’s chefs set to with a will, cooking up all sorts of scrumptious delights. The mountain was a hive of activity once more as the dwarves went about preparing for the feast with the same military efficiency as they had prepared for war._ _

__During the days before the feast, Ithilrian spent much time alone in her chambers. The only near-constant presence was that of Young Thorin, who had appointed himself her guardian; and who was only too pleased to be out from under the feet of the bustling dwarves and men who were preparing the tables in the great hall. The small dwarf would settle himself before the fireplace, reading or playing quietly while Ithilrian rested. Seldom did the two of them speak throughout these long, quiet evenings; for there was no real need to. Every now and then the dwarfling would wander over to the silver elf, and rest his head against her chest to check that her heart was still beating, an expression of fierce concentration on his little face. Every time Ithilrian would simply smile faintly, murmuring softly in sindarin and running tender hands through the child’s dark hair; for as the days passed swiftly, and the night of the feast grew closer, the silver elf felt her strength finally beginning to wane._ _

__The day of the feast dawned bright and clear. Exactly a year had passed since the ending of that final battle; a year to the day since Thorin Oakenshield had passed away, and Fili had been named King in his stead. Ithilrian had, with a great deal of effort, managed to drag her comfortable chair out onto her chamber balcony; and now she sat, gazing out over the mist-shrouded lowlands beneath a hard, sun-sharpened winter sky, enjoying the keen bite of the wind against her face._ _

__‘There y’are, lass.’_ _

__The faithful Dwalin came stamping up to her side, narrowing his eyes and squinting against the sunlight. The long years had stamped their indelible mark on the old dwarf’s craggy features, rendering his scowl even fiercer than before. But the rough, battle-scarred hand he laid on Ithilrian’s arm was surprisingly gentle._ _

__‘The youngsters are all enjoying themselves,’ he said quietly. ‘It does m’heart good to hear a bit of life and laughter in these halls again.’ He watched Ithilrian carefully as the former queen of Erebor raised her gaze to meet his. Deep and filled with sorrow were the ancient elf’s grey eyes; but despite the pain that was clearly visible in their silvery depths, a deep calm seemed to radiate from the pale elf as she leaned forwards._ _

__‘Mine too, _mellon nîn,’_ she replied softly. ‘It is a reminder of what we fought so hard to protect from the Shadow. I begrudge none of them their joy.’_ _

__The warrior dwarf nodded in agreement. ‘Aye, it’s good to let the lads blow off steam once in a while. But you don’t look happy, m’lady. You look…’ he hesitated, seeming unable to find the words. ‘Is there anything I can do?’ he added quietly. ‘I know you miss Thorin. We all do, those of us who are left. Who remember. And today of all days…’ he trailed off, averting his eyes, unable to endure the weight of sorrow in the silver elf’s gaze._ _

__‘There is indeed something you could do for me, Dwalin son of Fundin,’ Ithilrian replied softly. ‘A task I would only ask of an oldest and most trusted friend.’_ _

__‘Aye?’ the dwarf laughed quietly. ‘Go on then lass. I’m game.’_ _

__Ithilrian smiled faintly. ‘Then tell me; are the snows still thick upon the mountainside?’_ _

__‘They are,’ the old dwarf nodded._ _

__Ithilrian sighed softly. ‘Would that I had more strength, then I would go myself,’ she murmured. ‘Dwalin, at this hour last year, I went out upon the mountain slopes and plucked a small white flower from the rocky scree beneath the snows. Do you recall?’_ _

__‘I do.’ The old warrior nodded, his throat suddenly tight. ‘I remember it well, lass.’_ _

__Ithilrian smiled faintly. ‘Then I would deem it a great favor if you could go out onto Erebor’s slopes, and see if any similar flowers have bloomed so early this year.’_ _

__Dwalin hesitated before replying. ‘Aye,’ he answered quietly. ‘I could do that.’_ _

__He glanced up, meeting her gaze once more; but this time, he did not look away. A slow, sad smile of understanding suffused the ancient warrior’s scarred face. ‘Don’t fear; I’ll find your flower,’ he added quietly. ‘Only the best and prettiest bloom, eh? Something… something fit for a queen.’ He bowed his head before turning and striding hastily away, as a momentary tightness gripped his throat. He knew well the underlying meaning behind Ithilrian’s simple request. The silver elf did not have long to live._ _

__It wasn’t long before he returned. Stamping clods of melting snow from his boots, the dwarven warrior would have made a comical sight had anybody dared to laugh. In one large, calloused hand he was cradling a single snowdrop as though it was the most precious burden in the world._ _

__‘Your flower, my lady.’ The old dwarf’s voice was hoarse and rasping as, slowly but with great dignity, he lowered himself to one knee and bowed his head, offering up the single pale bloom._ _

__‘My thanks, old friend,’ whispered Ithilrian. ‘Come, do not you kneel to me. You and I are far too old for such nonsense now.’ Gently she raised her warrior up, before taking the bloom and inspecting it with care._ _

__‘A fine choice,’ she murmured. ‘It is perfect.’_ _

__The old dwarf nodded. His throat was suddenly far too tight to speak. He looked up, deep into her eyes, reaching out to clasp her hands tightly. Hot tears stung his eyes._ _

__‘We’ve both had a good run, eh lass?’ he managed to say eventually. ‘A good life, for better or for worse.’_ _

__‘We have indeed.’ Ithilrian smiled faintly, leaning forwards, tucking the snowdrop carefully inside her cloak before grasping her old friend’s hands with all the strength she could muster._ _

__‘Well then…’ Dwalin’s voice was low, hoarse rasp. ‘Give m’regards to Thorin when you find him.’ He nodded, setting his jaw firmly, ignoring the single tear that slid from his eye and rolled down his cheek. ‘Tell him… tell him I’ll see him in a few years, aye?’_ _

__‘I shall.’ Ithilrian smiled; and for the first time in a long, painful year, it was a bright, true smile that suffused the pale elf’s face like sunlight warming the mountaintops. ‘Farewell, Dwalin son of Fundin,’ she added softly. ‘I fear we shall not meet again this side of the Sundering Seas.’_ _

__‘I know.’ Dwalin squeezed his eyes shut tightly. ‘I wish ye luck, lass,’ he managed to say eventually. ‘All the luck this blasted world still has to offer.’ He swallowed hard, dashing the moisture from his eyes before releasing Ithilrian’s hands and squaring his shoulders resolutely. ‘Now, with your permission m’lady, I’m off to have a drink,’ he added gruffly. ‘There’s a cask of ale down there with my name on it; and by my reckoning, I’m going to need all of it before the night is over.’_ _

__Ithilrian nodded fondly. ‘Go in peace, old friend,’ she murmured softly. ‘And thank you for your many kindnesses; not least, this final gift.’_ _

__No more words needed to be said. The old dwarf bowed deeply before turning and walking away. His broad shoulders were hunched as he strode through the chamber, looking neither left nor right as he passed into the hall, until he reached an open cask of ale. Pouring himself a great foaming mug, he raised it in a solitary, silent toast: to his oldest friend Thorin, once King Under the Mountain; and to Ithilrian, whose long days of sorrow were finally drawing to an end._ _

__~_ _

__The feast that night was a great success. As the sun sank slowly in a clouded haze of dusty gold and crimson, the merriment in the mountain went unabated. King Fili’s name was toasted with every mug of ale, and the chatter and laughter of elves, men and dwarves filled Erebor’s carverns. The royal family had taken a break from the main hall for a little while, retiring away from the noise and chaos into their upper chambers, where Fili could finally remove the crown from his head._ _

__‘Phew!’ he said, wiping his brow. ‘It’s surprisingly heavy, that thing. Maybe I can speak to the smiths in a day or so, and see about getting it adjusted somehow.’_ _

__Kélda grinned wryly at him. ‘Try it, and most of the older mountain folk with throw a fit. That crown was specially commissioned by your Uncle. I’d wager they wouldn’t dare mess with the design; not even if you ordered them.’ She took off her own crown and inspected it critically. ‘Mine is far lighter,’ she added. ‘Which makes sense when you think about it. Still, it’s pretty enough.’ She glanced over to where Ithilrian was seated. The pale elf seemed to have dozed off momentarily. ‘Poor old Ithilrian,’ she whispered. ‘The past year’s been so hard on her. Losing a loved one is never easy.’_ _

__‘Shh,’ Fili cautioned her. ‘Even if she looks like she’s sleeping. You can never tell with Auntie Ithil. Let’s just let her rest. She looks exhausted.’_ _

__Tauriel nodded, cautioning the dwarves to speak softly. ‘She is fading,’ the wood elf said quietly. ‘I have seen it happen before. But never have I known someone to linger for so long in twilight. She has remarkable staying power.’_ _

__Kili chuckled. ‘I think we all know who we have to thank for that.’ He nodded towards Young Thorin, who was sitting close to Ithilrian’s feet, munching happily on a slice of cake he had purloined from his uncle’s plate. ‘That little one’s been a marvel. Even though he’s turned into a dreadful robber of other people’s food,’ he added, scowling as he noticed the stolen cake. Young Thorin giggled._ _

__‘S’allright, Uncle Kili. I saved you some, look.’ He showed the dwarf prince the tiniest, thinnest slice of cake in the world; before laughing in delight at his uncle’s splutter of indignation._ _

__As the conversation turned towards less weighty matters, Ithilrian allowed herself a small smile. Fili was right; she had not been sleeping. But now the attention in the room had been turned away from her, and she was safe to make her move._ _

__Slowly, with all the practiced grace of the Elder Folk, she rose soundlessly from her chair. Casting a momentary shadow of concealment around herself, she slipped unnoticed from the chamber. Clad in her long dark cloak, she was practically invisible as she made her way along the darkened hallway. _It is time,_ her inner thought whispered. _I am on my way, Thorin. It will not be much longer now.__ _

__‘Where are you going?’_ _

__She was halted in her tracks by a small, questioning voice. Young Thorin trotted up behind her, grasping the hem of her cloak with one sturdy hand. ‘Are we going for another walk, _khulumê?’_ he asked, smiling happily. ‘Come on, I’ll help you with the stairs.’ _ _

__Ithilrian smiled sadly, but shook her head. ‘I am sorry, little one. This time, you cannot come with me.’_ _

__‘Why is that?’ the young dwarf asked, his large blue eyes widening in surprise._ _

__‘Because it is not yet your time,’ she replied gently. ‘Go back, _tithen mîn._ Return to your family.’ _ _

__Young Thorin shook his head stubbornly. ‘M’not going,’ he said fiercely. ‘M’staying with you.’_ _

__Ithilrian shook her head. ‘You cannot yet tread the paths that I must now walk,’ she told him softly. ‘I am going to be with my husband, little one. The time has come for me to leave you.’_ _

__‘Leave?’ The young dwarf’s voice trembled. ‘I don’t want you to leave. Please, great-auntie Ithil. Don’t go.’_ _

__‘I must.’ Ithilrian groaned softly as pain tore at her insides once more. Her strength was failing swiftly. Nevertheless, she lowered herself onto one knee, grasping the dwarfling’s shoulder and looking him in the eye._ _

__‘Listen to me, _tithen luin-iaeth,’_ she said softly. ‘Please, do not be afraid. Death is simply a fact of life. It is something that will come to us all, from the greatest to the smallest, one day or another. Even the Elder Folk such as I cannot escape its grasp forever.’ She smiled softly as tears filled the young dwarf’s eyes. ‘I will not say, do not weep, little one,’ she added softly. ‘For not all tears are an evil. But do not be sad on my behalf. I go now to be with he whom I love. I am content; and unafraid.’ _ _

__Young Thorin trembled slightly, biting his lip fiercely to hold his tears in check. ‘But I’ll miss you, _khulumê,’_ he mumbled. ‘I’ll miss you so much.’_ _

__Ithilrian nodded. ‘As I will miss you,’ she told the youngster gently. ‘But I will see you again, in time. No farewells are truly forever. You will learn the truth of this one day.’_ _

__‘I wish I didn’t have to,’ the young dwarf muttered rebelliously. ‘I wish none of this ever happened.’_ _

__‘So do all who live to see such times, but that is not for them to decide,’ replied Ithilrian softly. ‘All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given to us.’ She bent to press a kiss to the top of the young dwarf’s head. ‘At least I got to see you, one last time,’ she added. ‘I have been doubly blessed.’ She hesitated. ‘Look at me, Thorin,’ she murmured._ _

__She smiled, a small tendril of warmth curling around her chest as the dwarfling gazed up at her. Bright blue were his eyes: blue as the depths of the Sundering Seas, sparkling bright with tears like diamonds; and just as rich, deep, and dark as those of Thorin Oakenshield, the dwarf who still held her heart after so many long years._ _

__‘Farewell,’ she said softly. Her quiet words burned themselves into the young dwarf’s heart, even though at the time he understood them not. _‘Boe I’waen, tithen mîn. Goheno nin. Boe naid bain gwannathar; boe cuil ban fíritha. Ná av-‘osto: él eria e môr. Namaríë.’_ _ _

__As she spoke, Ithilrian slipped a ring from her finger. It was small, _mithril_ -wrought, and depicted the twin emblems of the House of Durin and the trees of Lórien. Thorin had forged it for her many years ago. Gently she pressed it into the dwarf prince’s palm, folding his fingers tightly around the gift. ‘Remember this day, little one,’ she murmured. ‘Remember it well when you are King.’ _ _

__Slowly she turned away; and it was as though a veil had been drawn over Young Thorin’s eyes as he stumbled away, back towards the warmth and light of his family’s chambers. But to Ithilrian’s eyes, her path grew ever clearer._ _

__She made her way slowly down the corridor. Using the last of her remaining strength, she wove a spell of concealment around herself; so that she was able to pass unnoticed through the revelers, travelling step by painful step towards the tombs at the heart of the mountain._ _

__No guard had been set upon them this night. With a wave of her hand, Ithilrian opened the great dark doors and stepped inside. She needed no light to guide her steps as she walked towards the center of the cavernous room; towards the place where Thorin Oakenshield had been laid to rest._ _

__‘Here I am, _veleth nîn,’_ she murmured, halting by the carven stone. ‘I am sorry I have taken so long to come to you.’ Sculpted with care and reverence by the most skilled stonemasons, a statue of Thorin had been carved upon the tomb, lying for eternity in solitary regal splendor. Ithilrian touched the graven likeness of her husband’s cheek with gentle reverence, smiling faintly as her hand met the cool, unfeeling stone. _ _

__‘I have kept my promise, my heart,’ she told the still form softly. ‘I have watched over Fili for as long as I am able. But alas, I can do no more. He must go without my guidance now, for my time has run short; and I ache to be with you once again.’_ _

__With a wave of her hand she lit a single torch, before removing her long dark cloak and laying it carefully to one side. From within, she took a small pale bloom: the snowdrop she had asked Dwalin to find for her earlier that day. With a slow, painful gasp she lowered herself to the floor, kneeling at the head of the carven statue; and whether her eyes were finally beginning to fail, or whether it was a simple trick of the flickering torchlight, Ithilrian did not know; but the graven face of the former King Under the Mountain seemed to smile fondly at her from his eternal slumber, even as she bent her head and smiled contentedly._ _

__With the softness of a sigh, Ithilrian’s heart began to slow. Gradually, beat by beat, her spirit began to pull away; lifting ever upwards, away from her earthbound form, drawn by something she was powerless to resist. Up she drifted, through the land she had once called home, until finally, with one last trembling pulse, her heart ceased to beat. A fine white mist enveloped Ithilrian as her fading spirit was borne upwards, high above the peak of the Lonely Mountain, across the Great Sea, and into the West._ _

__~_ _

__Back in Erebor, Tauriel was alerted by the soft sound of muffled weeping._ _

__‘What is that?’ she said, putting out a hand to silence Kili’s merriment. Her sharp ears soon told her the source. Standing tall, she pulled the chamber door wide, revealing the huddled form of Young Thorin. ‘Hush now, little one,’ she said, swiftly gathering the young dwarf into her arms and carrying him inside. ‘Whatever is the matter?’_ _

__The young dwarf sniffed, scrubbing tiny fists across his eyes furiously. ‘I was trying to be brave,’ he mumbled. ‘But I couldn’t help it. She said it was alright to cry sometimes.’_ _

__‘Who did?’ asked Fili, all concern as he gently pulled his son’s hands away from his eyes, carefully wiping away his tears. ‘Thorin, what’s going on? What’s happened?’_ _

__‘It’s _khulumê,’_ replied the youngster in a subdued voice. ‘Great-auntie Ithil.’ _ _

__‘What about her?’ asked Fili gently, glancing around as he did so. ‘She’s not here,’ he added, surprise evident in his voice. ‘She must’ve slipped away somewhere. She’s gone.’_ _

__Young Thorin nodded frantically. ‘That’s what I was trying to tell you,’ he mumbled. ‘She’s gone. She said that she was going to be with great-uncle Thorin again.’_ _

__Silence fell like a hammer blow._ _

__‘Durin’s beard,’ muttered Kili, his eyes widening with horror as he realized what the dwarfling was saying. ‘Come on, we’ve got to find her!’_ _

__Fili sprang to his feet. ‘The tombs,’ he said quickly. ‘I bet she went to the tombs. Come on!’_ _

__Helter-skelter, the royal family thundered through Erebor. They hurtled past elves, men and dwarves alike, running urgently downwards, ever downwards, through the narrow sloping passageways. Many were caught up in the urgency of that mad dash and began running along behind, unknowing what they were running for but nevertheless certain that something had gone badly amiss. So when Fili skidded to a halt in front of the tomb, there was quite the crowd behind him, all craning their necks to see; and the sight that met their eyes made many a man’s breath catch in his throat._ _

__Deep within the cavern knelt the still figure of Ithilrian. The silver elf had cast off her dark cloak; and beneath it was revealed a trailing gown of purest white, which shone in the light of a single torch like the brightest star in all the heavens. Her head was bowed, resting lightly against the carven stone of Thorin’s tomb, the long white robe trailing out behind her like a spilled bolt of bridal satin._ _

__Entirely unperturbed by the sight, Young Thorin toddled forwards, towards the still form of the silver elf. Fili and Kili followed. Tentatively, Fili reached out to touch the single, fragile snowdrop still held carefully in his aunt’s immobile fingers._ _

__‘Ithilrian?’ he said gently, before pulling back with a gasp. The elf’s skin was colder than ice._ _

__‘We’re too late,’ murmured Kili, his voice breaking as he spoke. ‘We’re too late. She’s dead.’ He wiped his eyes roughly on his sleeve, dashing away the tears that threatened to fall._ _

__‘Don’t be sad, Uncle Kili,’ said Young Thorin quietly. ‘She wouldn’t want you to cry for her. See, she’s smiling. She’s happy now.’_ _

__‘Of course she is,’ murmured Fili, smiling despite the tears that rolled unchecked down his bearded cheeks. ‘Of course she’s happy. She’s with uncle Thorin again.’_ _

__~_ _

__Time passed. Ithilrian was uncertain how much. She seemed simply to be drifting, in silent contentment, for a span of time she was unable to name. It could have been decades; or a mere few seconds. But amid the warm, comforting haze, a tiny voice in her mind was whispering. Something, somewhere, was wrong._ _

__‘Thorin.’_ _

__The name tasted strange on her lips, warm and familiar, like the steam rising from a bowl of warm spiced wine. It meant something, she was certain. Something terribly important._ _

__All in a rush, her memory awakened. The mountain – the dragon – the battle – the whole lot came crashing down upon her head, as before her eyes the fog began to clear._ _

__She appeared to be in a large, elaborate hall. All around her were the pale, spectral forms of her fellow elves; others who, like her, had died or been called across the sea. A wave of understanding swept over her. She was in the Halls of Mandos._ _

__She glanced down at herself. Her spiritual form was not unlike that of her earthbound body, except that it was now faintly translucent. Silently she wandered amongst the figures of her kin, her bright eyes constantly seeking the face of the one she held most dear._ _

__‘Thorin,’ she murmured to herself, a reminder of he whom she had come to seek out. ‘Thorin.’_ _

__The giant halls seemed endless. Face after face passed Ithilrian by; and while some of them she recognized, and would have at other times rejoiced in seeing again, the urgency of her mission kept her feet moving. Eventually she found herself faced by a vast set of double doors, taller than a cathedral, cast in bronze and formidably sturdy. She reached out a single slender hand to touch the intricate engravings, wondering at the sight._ _

__‘Halt!’ a great voice boomed. Ithilrian almost jumped out of her skin. ‘Turn back, daughter of Illúvatar. That is not your place to tread.’_ _

__‘I cannot,’ replied Ithilrian, swallowing hard and attempting to steady herself, glancing around to try and catch a glimpse of where the voice had come from. ‘I am looking for somebody; and will not rest until he is found.’_ _

__She leapt back in shock as a vast, foreboding figure appeared before the gates. He was tall; far taller and broader than any being she had seen before. His face loomed over her, stern yet beautiful, with a chiseled jaw and knife-sharp cheekbones. His sweeping robes were deep-sea blue, spattered with white gems that glimmered like tiny stars. He leaned forwards, fixing Ithilrian with eyes that were deep, dark, and black as the sky at midnight. When he spoke, his voice echoed like the thunder of a summer storm._ _

__‘Whom do you search for, child?’ he asked. Ithilrian bit her lip anxiously, bowing her head and offering the giant respect, knowing instinctively who the new arrival must be._ _

__‘I seek my husband, O great and implacable Mandos, Doomsman of the Valar,’ she said, trying and failing to keep her voice from trembling beneath the sheer power of the spirit’s gaze. ‘His name is Thorin Oakenshield.’_ _

__‘Thorin?’ repeated the Valar quietly, rolling the name across his tongue as though savoring the taste. ‘That is not a name that belongs to any of the Firstborn.’_ _

__‘I know.’ Ithilrian drew in a deep, steadying breath. ‘That is because my husband is not of my own race, my lord Mandos, Keeper of the Slain. He is a child of Aulë: a dwarf.’_ _

__She winced, falling back as the great voice boomed throughout the hall. ‘A dwarf?’ he cried out, leaning closer so as to look deep within her eyes. ‘You speak the truth,’ he added slowly. ‘Deep within your heart I can see it.’ He pulled back, narrowing his dark eyes and watching her carefully. ‘How far are you willing to go, little elf?’ he added, more softly than before. ‘How deep is your bond to this dwarf, that you would search the whole of my kingdom for his departed spirit?’_ _

__‘It is as deep as the depths of the Great Sea,’ replied Ithilrian, lifting her head proudly and staring the Valar straight in the eye. ‘I will search as long as I must, my Lord of Light and Dark. I will search for a hundred, a thousand, ten thousand years; until Arda itself is crumbled into dust and the world must be forged anew. But my lord; I _will_ find him. This I swear.’ _ _

__For a moment, she thought she had gone too far. The great Valar’s face was immobile, stern as steel as he gazed silently down upon her. Then it was as though a dam had burst. The roaring thunder of Mandos’s laughter reverberated through Ithilrian’s bones, shaking the enormous hall to its foundations._ _

__‘By the beard of Aulë, Olórin was right,’ he boomed. ‘You are a determined little one and no mistake.’_ _

__‘Olórin?’ repeated Ithilrian bewilderedly. She had never heard the name spoken before; yet somehow it still seemed oddly familiar._ _

__‘Olórin indeed, the meddler,’ replied the Valar, his stern face cracking into a handsome smile. ‘But perchance you knew him by another name.’ He moved a little to one side, as there appeared beside him a far smaller, yet familiar, figure. Still, Ithilrian had to look twice before recognizing him._ _

__‘Mithrandir?’ she murmured bewilderedly. ‘Is it truly you?’ For all the signs of wear and age had vanished from the grey wizard’s features. Smooth-skinned and handsome was his laughing face as he stood easily beside the Valar; and long and pale was his brightly flowing hair. But his eyes were still the same as ever: warm, dark, friendly, and sparkling with intended mischief._ _

__‘You’re late,’ he admonished her. ‘I have been expecting you for some time, Ithilrian Tinnulenath. You lingered far longer in Middle Earth than many of us expected.’ He tilted his head to one side, chuckling softly at the bewilderment on Ithilrian’s face._ _

__‘You are one of the Maiar,’ she breathed, realization suddenly dawning. ‘A great spirit of Valinor.’_ _

__‘I am,’ he nodded, still chuckling. ‘Although ‘great’ may be stretching the point a little,’ he added, glancing wryly up at the vast form of Mandos that still towered over them both. ‘But I was sent to Middle Earth to be the Enemy of Sauron; and now that my task is done, I have finally been allowed to return home.’ He nodded affably towards her, gesturing behind him. ‘Do you know what lies beyond those doors?’ he added._ _

__Ithilrian shook her head. ‘I do not.’_ _

__Olórin smiled triumphantly. ‘The doors lead into the Halls of Waiting, Ithilrian. It is the domain of Aulë, whom the dwarves call Mahal. That is where you will find Thorin Oakenshield.’ He held up one hand, forestalling Ithilrian’s excited gasp. ‘They have been kept shut and locked for an age,’ he added, his voice dropping sternly. ‘Since the two kindreds were first sundered by hatred and war. It will be no small matter, to allow this passageway open freely again.’_ _

__Ithilrian swallowed hard. ‘What must I do?’_ _

__A slow, warm smile spread across the stern features of Mandos. ‘You have already done it, little one,’ he rumbled. ‘Your soul-bond with the dwarf is proof enough. The two kindreds are no longer sundered: a discord in the song of the world has been re-sung.’ With that, he raised a single mighty hand. Slowly, with a dignity befitting their enormous size, the ponderous bulk of the great bronze doors swung wide._ _

__‘Go on,’ Olórin urged, smiling broadly at Ithilrian’s eager expression. ‘Go and find him. He knows you are coming; he is waiting for you.’_ _

__The great hall was dark and dim. Ithilrian made her way carefully forwards, following a line of flickering torches. All around her, the shades of dwarves sat or stood, all paying absolutely no attention to the silver elf in their midst._ _

__Save for one._ _

__He saw her before she spotted him. He was already rising to his feet when her gaze finally found him; and at the sight, Ithilrian abandoned any semblance of dignity or restraint, and began to run._ _

__Faster than the winds of the world she ran, but for once she was not as fleet of foot as dwarf who came hurtling towards her; and Ithilrian could not help but laugh with sheer delight as they collided in a flurry of limbs. For Thorin was young again; young as he had been when first they met upon the planes of Arnor. No signs of care or age marred his beauty, and no threads of silver veined his dark mane of silken hair. She hurled herself into his arms, tears of sheer joy and relief choking her as he swung Ithilrian clean off her feet and into his muscular arms, spinning her around as she buried her face in his shoulder with a noise that was half a laugh, and half a sob._ _

__‘Thorin,’ she choked out. ‘Thorin, _a’maelamin,_ beloved, I have found you.’ _ _

__‘You have found me,’ murmured Thorin, burying his face in her silken hair, releasing a single sob of relief. ‘Ithilrian, my heart. How I have missed you.’_ _

__‘As I have missed you,’ she replied, raising her head from his shoulder to gaze wonderingly into his eyes. ‘I am sorry; sorry I lingered so long before coming to you.’_ _

__‘It matters not. I know why you waited,’ he replied softly. ‘Thank you, Ithilrian. Thank you for keeping your promise.’ Tears filled his sea-blue eyes as he gazed up at her, his face filled with such open love and tenderness that Ithilrian found her tears falling unbidden at the sight of him. The memory of the long days and empty nights she had spent alone and in pain seemed to vanish, even as she gazed into his eyes; for she was whole once more, her spirit mended, her soul truly healed. Tenderly she leaned forwards, capturing her husband’s mouth in a gentle kiss that seemed to send wave upon wave of silken fire shivering through her._ _

__‘Ahem.’_ _

__A quiet cough sounded behind them. They broke apart and turned around. Ithilrian watched Thorin’s eyes widen in astonishment at the sight of Olórin: he who had once been called Gandalf._ _

__‘Well now, this is indeed a fine thing,’ the old Maia nodded happily. ‘Such a joyful reunion I have seldom had the pleasure to witness.’ A wide grin was on his face as he stepped towards them, seeming unconcerned by the imposing figure of Mandos who still lingered in the doorway._ _

__‘Gandaf?’ Thorin muttered in bewilderment. ‘What wizardry is this? How come you here?’_ _

__Olórin shook his head, merriment twinkling in his grey eyes. ‘That is a long tale, and one that I shall be happy to tell,’ he replied. ‘But for now, there is a matter of great import that I must discuss with you both.’ He glanced from Ithilrian to Thorin, making certain he had their full attention before continuing. ‘Through your union, a great wound in the world has been healed,’ he began softly. ‘The elves and the dwarves are no longer sundered, as they have been for an age. That, my dear friends, is no mean feat. In fact, so impressive is it, that the Valar have accorded you a special honor.’_ _

__‘Honor?’ echoed Ithilrian, arching an eyebrow inquisitively. ‘Mithrandir, what do you mean?’_ _

__Olórin chuckled. ‘I mean that hitherto, only the Firstborn have been offered the gift of Manwë: to tread once more the fair grasses of the Blessed Realm in a fresh form.’ He glanced sharply at Ithilrian who nodded in understanding. ‘But now… I have been bidden to grant you both a choice. The choice of a new life. Together.’_ _

__‘What do you mean?’ asked Thorin cautiously, reaching out to grasp Ithilrian’s hand uncertainly._ _

__‘I mean that if you so wish, you may leave the Halls of Mandos, and may travel into Aman in new bodies. Not just Ithilrian; but Thorin as well,’ added Olórin, his eyes sparkling brightly. ‘What say you?’ he added, when Ithilrian appeared to shocked for words._ _

__‘It sounds…almost too good to be true,’ rumbled Thorin, glancing up at Ithilrian encouragingly. She nodded._ _

__‘Indeed, Mithrandir, this sounds like far more than ever I hoped for,’ she murmured softly. ‘But Thorin is still a dwarf. His body will age, and slowly wither; just like before, will it not?’_ _

__‘Not this time.’ Olórin shook his head, smiling fondly at Ithilrian’s expression. ‘Do not take me for a fool, daughter of Lórien,’ he added with a chuckle. ‘He will have the same body as you will; the physical form of one of the Elder Folk. He will not wither and die. But you will still take on a similar appearance to the one you now have,’ he added, forestalling Thorin’s next question with an upraised hand. ‘Don’t worry. You will look much the same as you always did. Perhaps a trifle… taller,’ he added mischievously, chuckling lightly at Thorin’s expression. ‘So what do you say, my old friends? Are you ready for another adventure?’_ _

__Ithilrian smiled as joy enveloped her in a warm embrace. She glanced expectantly down at Thorin, who nodded eagerly. She laughed softly, speaking for both of them._ _

__‘We are ready, Mithrandir,’ she said softly, reaching down to clasp Thorin’s hand firmly in her own. ‘Lead on.’_ _

__The doors of the great hall swung wide. Ithilrian and Thorin were both forced to throw up one hand to shade their eyes from the unaccustomed light; for as their vision cleared, they beheld a sight no mortal eye had ever been permitted to see. Far, far in the distance they beheld the Sea; a great expanse of seething blue, glittering in the light, lapping rhythmically against white, sandy shores; and beyond that, a far green country under the light of a swift sunrise._ _

__‘Welcome to Aman,’ murmured Olórin softly. ‘Welcome home.’_ _

__~_ _

__

__The End.  
~_ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so we come at last to the end. 
> 
>  
> 
> My thanks to all of you who have come with me this far, and who have stuck with Thorin and Ithil's tale right through to the very end. I hope this final chapter did not disappoint. I must also add a special _thank you_ to all those who have commented and left kudos so far; you kind words have often seen me through hard times, and kept me writing when I thought that finishing this fic would be too difficult a task. 
> 
> You are all wonderful people, and I am simply glad that my tale has been read by so many kind and thoughtful readers. My heart goes out to you all. 
> 
> _Namaríë._
> 
>  
> 
> Elvish Translations: 
> 
> Gwathél = sworn sister (non-blood relation)  
> Tithen luin-iaeth = little blue eyes  
> A’maelamin = beloved  
> Tithen-mîn = little one  
> Mellon nîn = my friend  
> Veleth nîn = my love  
> Ammë = mother  
> Ada = father  
> Mae g’ovannen = well met  
> Cormamin lindua ele lle, Ithilrian = My heart sings to see thee, Ithilrian.  
> Hîr vuin Thranduil. Nae saian luume. = My lord Thranduil. It has been too long.  
> Ai’atar = little father (young dwarf)  
> Nâ I onnad = it is the beginning  
> Mâb le i nagor = war is upon you  
> Hûn-dínen = heart-silent  
> Boe I’waen, tithen mîn. Goheno nin. Boe naid bain gwannathar; boe cuil ban fíritha. Ná av-‘osto: él eria e môr. Namaríë. = I must go, little one. Forgive me. All things must pass away; all life is doomed to fade. But don’t be afraid: a star will still rise out of the darkness. Farewell. 
> 
> Khuzdul translations: 
> 
> Kurdunûh = my heart  
> Khulumê = my elf  
> Abrithê = little firecracker  
> Amrâlimê = my love  
> Ghivashel = treasure of all treasures

**Author's Note:**

> So, I've been getting serious Tolkien withdrawal since the end of BOTFA, so I thought I'd kick off another fic. I'm a bit nervous, as I'm planning this to be a long one, and I've never written anything longer than a few chapters! Eeep! It'll probably be a little bit meandering, and a little bit AU and non-canon (just a bit!!) with invented characters and story changes and all that stuff. I will be posting chapters as and when I finish them (and for as long as anyone shows any interest in this story!). I hope it turns out ok, and that Tolkien isn't turning in his grave too much…


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